THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  INEVITABLE 


THE  WORKS  OF  LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Translated  by 
ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


THE  BOOKS  OF  THE  SMALL  SOULS 
I.    SMALL  SOULS 
II.    THE  LATER  LIFE 

III.  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

IV.  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Also 

OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE  THINGS  THAT  PASS 
ECSTASY 
THE  TOUR 
THE  INEVITABLE 


THE  INEVITABLE 


BY 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYBIdHT,  1920. 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


VAIL-BALLOU     COMPANY 

•  INBMA-ro.   AMD   »tw   T0«« 


rr- 
5125- 


THE  INEVITABLE 


612715 

LIBRARY 


THE  INEVITABLE 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Marchesa  Belloni's  boarding-house  was  situ- 
ated in  one  of  the  healthiest,  if  not  one  of  the  most 
romantic  quarters  of  Rome.  One  half  of  the  house 
had  formed  part  of  a  villino  of  the  old  Ludovisi  Gar- 
dens, those  beautiful  old  gardens  regretted  by  every- 
body who  knew  them  before  the  new  barrack- 
quarters  were  built  on  the  site  of  the  old  Roman 
park,  with  its  border  of  villas.  The  entrance  to  the 
pension  was  in  the  Via  Lombardia.  The  older  or 
villino  portion  of  the  house  retained  a  certain  an- 
tique charm  for  the  marchesa's  boarders,  while  the 
new  premises  built  on  to  it  offered  the  advantages 
of  spacious  rooms,  modern  sanitation  and  electric 
light.  The  pension  boasted  a  certain  reputation 
for  comfort,  cheapness  and  a  pleasant  situation:  it 
stood  at  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  Pincio,  on 
high  ground,  and  there  was  no  need  to  fear  malaria; 
and  the  price  charged  for  a  long  stay,  amounting  to 
hardly  more  than  eight  lire,  was  exceptionally  low 
for  Rome,  which  was  known  to  be  more  expensive 
than  any  other  town  in  Italy.  The  boarding-house 
therefore  was  generally  full.  The  visitors  began  to 
arrive  as  soon  as  October:  those  who  came  earliest 
in  the  season  paid  least;  and,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  hurrying  tourists,  they  nearly  all  remained 
until  Easter,  going  southward  to  Naples  after  the 
great  church  festivals. 

Some  English  travelling-acquaintances  had  strongly 
recommended  the  pension  to  Cornelie  de  Retz  van 


2  THE  INEVITABLE 

Loo,  who  was  travelling  in  Italy  by  herself;  and 
she  had  written  to  the  Marchesa  Belloni  from 
Florence.  It  was  her  first  visit  to  Italy;  it  was 
the  first  time  that  she  had  alighted  at  the  great 
cavernous  station  near  the  Baths  of  Diocletian;  and, 
standing  in  the  square,  in  the  golden  Roman  sunlight, 
•while  the  great  fountain  of  the  Acqua  Marcia  gushed 
and  rippled  and  the  cab-drivers  clicked  with  their 
whips  and  their  tongues  to  attract  her  attention,  she 
was  conscious  of  her  "  nice  Italian  sensation,"  as 
she  called  it,  and  felt  glad  to  be  in  Rome. 

She  saw  a  little  old  man  limping  towards  her  with 
the  instinct  of  a  veteran  porter  who  recognizes  his 
travellers  at  once;  and  she  read  "Hotel  Belloni" 
on  his  cap  and  beckoned  to  him  with  a  smile.  He 
saluted  her  with  respectful  familiarity,  as  though  she 
were  an  old  acquaintance  and  he  glad  to  see  her; 
asked  if  she  had  had  a  pleasant  journey,  if  she  was 
not  over-tired;  led  her  to  the  victoria;  put  in  her  rug 
and  her  hand-bag;  asked  for  the  tickets  of  her  trunks; 
and  said  that  she  had  better  go  on  ahead:  he  would 
follow  in  ten  minutes  with  the  luggage.  She  re- 
ceived an  impression  of  cosiness,  of  being  well  cared 
for  by  the  little  old  lame  man ;  and  she  gave  him  a 
friendly  nod  as  the  coachman  drove  away.  She  felt 
happy  and  careless,  though  she  had  just  the  faintest 
foreboding  of  something  unhappy  and  unknown  that 
was  going  to  happen  to  her;  and  she  looked  to  right 
and  left  to  take  in  the  streets  of  Rome.  But  she 
saw  only  houses  upon  houses,  like  so  many  barracks ; 
then  a  great  white  palace,  the  new  Palazzo  Piom- 
bino,  which  she  knew  to  contain  the  Juno  Ludovisi; 
and  then  the  vettura  stopped  and  a  boy  in  buttons 
came  out  to  meet  her.  He  showed  her  into  the 
drawing-room,  a  gloomy  apartment,  in  the  middle 
of  which  was  a  table  covered  with  periodicals,  ar- 
ranged in  a  regular  and  unbroken  circle.  Two  la- 


THE  INEVITABLE  3 

dies,  obviously  English  and  of  the  aesthetic  type, 
with  loose-fitting  blouses  and  grimy  hair,  sat  in  a 
corner  studying  their  Baedekers  before  going  out. 
Cornelie  bowed  slightly,  but  received  no  bow  in  re- 
turn; she  did  not  take  offence,  being  familiar  with 
the  manners  of  the  travelling  Briton.  She  sat  down 
at  the  table  and  took  up  the  Roman  Herald,  the 
paper  which  appears  once  a  fortnight  and  tells  you 
what  there  is  to  do  in  Rome  during  the  next  two 
weeks. 

Thereupon  one  of  the  ladies  asked  her,  frqm  the 
corner,  in  an  aggressive  tone : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  would  you  please  not 
take  the  Herald  to  your  room?  " 

Cornelie  raised  her  head  very  haughtily  and  lan- 
guidly in  the  direction  where  the  ladies  were  sitting, 
looked  vaguely  above  their  grimy  heads,  said  no- 
thing and  glanced  down  at  the  Herald  again;  and 
she  thought  herself  a  very  experienced  traveller  and 
smiled  inwardly  because  she  knew  how  to  deal  with 
that  type  of  Englishwoman. 

The  marchesa  entered  and  welcomed  Cornelie  in 
Italian  and  in  French.  She  was  a  large,  fat  matron, 
vulgarly  fat;  her  ample  bosom  was  contained  in  a 
silk  cuirass  or  spencer,  shiny  at  the  seams  and  burst- 
ing under  the  arms;  her  grey  frizzled  hair  gave  her 
a  somewhat  leonine  appearance;  her  great  yellow 
and  blue  eyes,  with  bistre  shadows  beneath  them, 
wore  a  strained  expression,  the  pupils  unnaturally  di- 
lated by  belladonna ;  a  pair  of  immense  crystals  spar- 
kled in  her  ears;  and  her  fat,  greasy  fingers  were 
covered  with  nameless  jewels.  She  talked  very  fast; 
and  Cornelie  thought  her  sentences  as  pleasant  and 
homely  as  the  welcome  of  the  lame  porter  in  the 
square  outside  the  station.  The  marchesa  led  her 
to  the  lift  and  stepped  in  with  her;  the  hydraulic 
lift,  a  railed-in  cage,  running  up  the  well  of  the  stair- 


4  THE  INEVITABLE 

case,  rose  solemnly  and  suddenly  stopped,  motion- 
less, between  the  second  and  the  third  floor. 

"  Third  floor !  "  cried  the  marchesa  to  some  one 
below. 

"  Non  cye  acqiia! "  the  boy  in  buttons  calmly 
called  back,  meaning  thereby  to  convey  that  —  as 
seemed  natural  —  there  was  not  enough  water  to 
move  the  lift. 

The  marchesa  screamed  out  some  orders  in  a 
shrill  voice;  two  facchini  came  running  up  and  hung 
on  to  the  cable  of  the  lift,  together  with  the  osten- 
sibly zealous  boy  in  buttons;  and  by  fits  and  starts 
the  cage  rose  higher  and  higher,  until  at  last  it  al- 
most reached  the  third  storey. 

"  A  little  higher!  "  ordered  the  marchesa. 

But  the  facchini  strained  their  muscles  in  vain: 
the  lift  refused  to  stir. 

"  We  can  manage !  "  said  the  marchesa.  "  Wait 
a  bit." 

Taking  a  great  stride,  which  revealed  the  enorm- 
ous white-stockinged  calf  of  her  leg,  she  stepped 
on  to  the  floor,  smiled  and  gave  her  hand  to  Cor- 
nelie, who  imitated  her  gymnastics. 

"  Here  we  are !  "  sighed  the  marchesa,  with  a  smile 
of  satisfaction.  "  This  is  your  room." 

She  opened  a  door  and  showed  Cornelie  a  room. 
Though  the  sun  was  shining  brightly  out  of  doors, 
the  room  was  as  damp  and  chilly  as  a  cellar. 

"  Marchesa,"  Cornelie  said,  without  hesitation, 
"  I  wrote  to  you  for  two  rooms  facing  south." 

"  Did  you?"  asked  the  marchesa,  plausibly  and 
ingenuously.  "  I  really  didn't  remember.  Yes, 
that  is  one  of  those  foreigners'  ideas:  rooms  facing 
south.  .  .  .  This  is  really  a  beautiful  room." 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  accept  this  room,  mar- 
chesa." 

La  Belloni  grumbled  a  bit,  went  down  the  cor- 


THE  INEVITABLE  5 

ridor    and    opened    the    door    of    another    room: 

"  And  this  one,  signora?  .  .  .  How  do  you  like 
this?" 

"Is  it  south?" 

"Almost." 

"  I  want  it  full  south." 

'  This  looks  west :  you  see  the  most  splendid  sun- 
sets from  your  window." 

"  I  absolutely  must  have  a  south  room,  mar- 
chesa." 

"  I  also  have  the  most  charming  little  apartments 
looking  east:  you  get  the  most  picturesque  sunrises 
there." 

"  No,  marchesa." 

"  Don't  you  appreciate  the  beauties  of  nature?" 

"  Just  a  little,  but  I  put  my  health  first." 

"  I  sleep  in  a  north  room  myself." 

"  You  are  an  Italian,  marchesa,  and  you're  used 
to  it." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  have  no  rooms  facing 
south." 

"  Then  I'm  sorry  too,  marchesa,  but  I  must  look 
out  somewhere  else." 

Cornelie  turned  as  though  to  go  away.  The 
choice  of  a  room  sometimes  means  the  choice  of  a 
life. 

The  marchesa  caught  hold  of  her  hand  and 
smiled.  She  had  abandoned  her  cool  tone  and  her 
voice  was  all  honey: 

"  Davuero,  that's  one  of  those  foreigners'  ideas : 
rooms  facing  south!  But  I  have  two  little  kennels 
left.  Here.  .  .  ." 

And  she  quickly  opened  two  doors,  two  snug  little 
cupboards  of  rooms,  which  showed  through  the 
open  windows  a  lofty  and  spacious  view  of  the  sky, 
outspread  above  the  streets  and  roofs  below,  with 
the  blue  dome  of  St.  Peter's  in  the  distance. 


6  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  These  are  the  only  rooms  I  have  left  facing 
south,"  said  the  marchesa,  plaintively. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  these,  marchesa." 

"  Sixteen  lire,"  smiled  la  Belloni. 

"  Ten,  as  you  wrote." 

"  I  could  put  two  persons  in  here." 

"  I  shall  stay  all  the  winter,  if  I  am  satisfied." 

"  You  must  have  your  way !  "  the  marchesa  ex- 
claimed, suddenly,  in  her  sweetest  voice,  a  voice  of 
graceful  surrender.  '  You  shall  have  the  rooms 
for  twelve  lire.  Don't  let  us  discuss  it  any  more. 
The  rooms  are  yours.  You  are  Dutch,  are  you  not? 
We  have  a  Dutch  family  staying  here:  a  mother 
with  two  daughters  and  a  son.  Would  you  like  to 
sit  next  to  them  at  table?  " 

"No,  I'd  rather  you  put  me  somewhere  else;  I 
don't  care  for  my  fellow-countrymen  when  travel- 
ling." 

The  marchesa  left  Cornelie  to  herself.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window,  absent-mindedly,  glad  to 
be  in  Rome,  yet  faintly  conscious  of  the  something 
unhappy  and  unknown  that  was  going  to  happen. 
There  was  a  tap  at  her  door;  the  men  carried  in 
her  luggage.  She  saw  that  it  was  eleven  o'clock 
and  began  to  unpack.  One  of  her  rooms  was  a 
small  sitting-room,  like  a  bird-cage  in  the  air,  look- 
ing out  over  Rome.  She  altered  the  position  of 
the  furniture,  draped  the  faded  sofa  with  a  shawl 
from  the  Abruzzi  and  fixed  a  few  portraits  and  pho- 
tographs with  drawing-pins  to  the  wall,  whose  white- 
washed surface  was  broken  up  by  rudely-painted 
arabesques.  And  she  smiled  at  the  border  of  pur- 
ple hearts  transfixed  by  arrows,  which  surrounded 
the  decorated  panels  of  the  wall. 

After  an  hour's  work  her  sitting-room  was  set- 
tled :  she  had  a  home  of  her  own,  with  a  few  of  her 
own  shawls  and  rugs,  a  screen  here,  a  little  table 


THE  INEVITABLE  7 

there,  cushions  on  the  sofa,  books  within  easy  reach. 
When  she  had  finished  and  had  sat  down  and  looked 
around  her,  she  suddenly  felt  very  lonely.  She  be- 
gan to  think  of  the  Hague  and  of  what  she  had  left 
behind  her.  But  she  did  not  want  to  think  and 
picked  up  her  Baedeker  and  read  about  the  Vatican. 
She  was  unable  to  concentrate  her  thoughts  and 
turned  to  Hare's  Walks  in  Rome.  A  bell  sounded. 
She  was  tired  and  her  nerves  were  on  edge.  She 
looked  in  the  glass,  saw  that  her  hair  was  out  of 
curl,  her  blouse  soiled  with  coal  and  dust,  unlocked 
a  second  trunk  and  changed  her  things.  She  cried 
and  sobbed  while  she  was  curling  her  hair.  The 
second  bell  rang;  and,  after  powdering  her  face, 
she  went  downstairs. 

She  expected  to  be  late,  but  there  was  no  one  in 
the  dining-room  and  she  had  to  wait  before  she 
was  served.  She  resolved  not  to  come  down  so 
very  punctually  in  future.  A  few  boarders  looked 
In  through  the  open  door,  saw  that  there  was  no  one 
sitting  at  table  yet,  except  a  new  lady,  and  disap- 
peared again. 

Cornelie  looked  around  her  and  waited. 

The  dining-room  was  the  original  dining-room  of 
the  old  villa,  with  a  ceiling  by  Guercina.  The 
waiters  loitered  about.  An  old  grey  major-domo 
cast  a  distant  glance  over  the  table,  to  see  if  every- 
thing was  in  order.  He  grew  impatient  when  no- 
body came  and  told  them  to  serve  the  macaroni  to 
Cornelie.  It  struck  Cornelie  that  he  too  limped 
with  one  leg,  like  the  porter.  But  the  waiters  were 
very  young,  hardly  more  than  sixteen  to  eighteen, 
and  lacked  the  waiter's  usual  self-possession. 

A  stout  gentleman,  vivacious,  consequential,  pock- 
marked, ill-shaven,  in  a  shabby  black  coat  which 
showed  but  little  linen,  entered,  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  took  his  seat,  opposite  Cornelie. 


8  THE  INEVITABLE 

He  bowed  politely  and  began  to  eat  his  macaroni. 

And  this  seemed  to  be  the  signal  for  the  others 
to  begin  eating,  for  a  number  of  boarders,  mostly 
ladies,  now  came  in,  sat  down  and  helped  them- 
selves to  the  macaroni,  which  was  handed  round  by 
the  youthful  waiters  under  the  watchful  eye  of  the 
grey-haired  major-domo.  Cornelie  smiled  at  the 
oddity  of  these  travelling  types;  and,  when  she  in- 
voluntarily glanced  at  the  pock-marked  gentleman 
opposite,  she  saw  that  he  too  was  smiling. 

He  hurriedly  mopped  up  his  tomato-sauce  with 
his  bread,  bent  a  little  way  across  the  table  and  al- 
most whispered,  in  French: 

"  It's  amusing,  isn't  it?'* 

Cornelie  raised  her  eyebrows: 

u  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  A  cosmopolitan  company  like  this." 

"Oh,  yes!" 
'You  are  Dutch?" 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  saw  your  name  in  the  visitors'  book,  with  '  la 
Haye '  after  it." 

"  I  am  Dutch,  yes." 

"  There  are  some  more  Dutch  ladies  here,  sitting 
over  there :  they  are  charming." 

Cornelie  asked  the  major-domo  for  some  vin  ordi- 
naire. 

'  That  wine  is  no  good,"  said  the  stout  gentle- 
man, vivaciously.  "  This  is  Genzano,"  pointing  to 
his  fiasco.  "  I  pay  a  small  corkage  and  drink  my 
own  wine." 

The  major-domo  put  a  pint  bottle  in  front  of  Cor- 
nelie: it  was  included  in  her  pension  without  extra 
charge. 

"If  you  like,  I  will  give  you  the  address  where 
I  get  my  wine.  Via  defla  Croce,  61." 

Cornelie  thanked  him.     The  pock-marked  gentle- 


THE  INEVITABLE  9 

man's  uncommon   ease   and  vivacity  diverted  her. 

"  You're  looking  at  the  major-domo?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  are  a  keen  observer,"  she  smiled  in  reply. 

"  He's  a  type,  our  major-domo,  Giuseppe.  He 
used  to  be  major-domo  in  the  palace  of  an  Austrian 
archduke.  He  did  I  don't  know  what.  Stole 
something,  perhaps.  Or  was  impertinent.  Or 
dropped  a  spoon  on  the  floor.  He  has  come  down 
in  the  world.  Now  you  behold  him  in  the  Pension 
Belloni.  But  the  dignity  of  the  man!  " 

He  leant  forward: 

"  The  marchesa  is  economical.  All  the  servants 
here  are  either  old  or  very  young.  It's  cheaper." 

He  bowed  to  two  German  ladies,  a  mother  and 
daughter,  who  had  come  in  and  sat  down  beside 
him: 

"  I  have  the  permit  which  I  promised  you,  to  see 
the  Palazzo  Rospigliosi  and  Guido  Reni's  Aurora" 
he  said,  speaking  in  German. 

"  Is  the  prince  back  then?  " 

"  No,  the  prince  is  in  Paris.  The  palace  is  not 
open  to  visitors,  except  yourselves." 

This  was  said  with  a  gallant  bow. 

The  German  ladies  exclaimed  how  kind  he  was, 
how  he  was  able  to  do  anything,  to  find  a  way  out 
of  every  difficulty.  They  had  taken  endless  trouble 
to  bribe  the  Rospigliosi  porter  and  they  had  not 
succeeded. 

A  little  thin  Englishwoman  had  taken  her  seat  be- 
side Cornelie. 

"  And  for  you,  Miss  Taylor,  I  have  a  card  for 
a  low  mass  in  His  Holiness'  private  chapel." 

Miss  Taylor  was  radiant  with  delight. 

"Have  you  been  sight-seeing  again?"  the  pock- 
marked gentleman  continued. 

"  Yes,  Museo  Kircheriano,"  said  Miss  Taylor. 
"  But  I  am  tired  out.  It  was  most  exquisite." 


10  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  My  prescription,  Miss  Taylor,  is  that  you  stay 
at  home  this  afternoon  and  rest." 

"  I  have  an  engagement  to  go  to  the  Aven- 
tino.  .  .  ." 

"  You  mustn't.  You're  tired.  You  look  worse 
every  day  and  you're  losing  flesh.  You  must  rest, 
or  you  sha'n't  have  the  card  for  the  low  mass." 

The  German  ladies  laughed.  Miss  Taylor,  flat- 
tered, in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  gave  her  promise. 
She  looked  at  the  pock-marked  gentleman  as  though 
she  expected  to  hear  the  judgement  of  Solomon  fall 
from  his  lips. 

Lunch  was  over :  the  rump-steak,  the  pudding,  the 
dried  figs.  Cornelie  rose : 

"May  I  give  you  a  glass  out  of  my  bottle?" 
asked  the  stout  gentleman.  "  Do  taste  my  wine 
and  tell  me  if  you  like  it.  If  so,  I'll  order  a  fiasco 
for  you  in  the  Via  della  Croce." 

Cornelie  did  not  like  to  refuse.  She  sipped  the 
wine.  It  was  deliciously  pure.  She  thought  that 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  drink  a  pure  wine  in 
Rome;  and,  as  she  reflected,  the  stout  gentleman 
seemed  to  read  her  quick  thought : 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,"  he  said,  "  to  drink  a 
strengthening  wine  while  you  are  in  Rome,  where 
life  is  so  tiring." 

Cornelie  agreed. 

'  This  is  Genzano,  at  two  lire  seventy-five  the 
fiasco.  It  will  last  you  a  long  time:  the  wine  keeps. 
So  I'll  order  you  a  fiasco." 

He  bowed  to  the  ladies  around  and  left  the  room. 

The  German  ladies  bowed  to  Cornelie. 

"  Such  an  amiable  man,  that  Mr.  Rudyard." 

^  What     can     he     be?"     Cornelie     wondered. 

11  French,  German,  English,  American?  " 


She  had  hired  a  victoria  after  lunch  and  had 
driven  through  Rome,  to  make  her  first  acquaintance 
with  the  city  for  which  she  had  longed  so  eagerly. 
This  first  impression  was  a  great  disappointment. 
Her  unspoiled  imagination,  her  reading,  even  the 
photographs  which  she  had  bought  in  Florence  and 
studied  with  the  affection  of  an  inexperienced  tourist 
had  given  her  the  illusion  of  a  city  of  an  ideal  an- 
tiquity, an  ideal  Renascence;  and  she  had  forgotten 
that,  especially  in  Rome,  life  has  progressed  piti- 
lessly and  that  the  ages  are  not  visible,  in  buildings 
and  ruins,  as  distinct  periods,  but  that  each  period 
is  closely  connected  with  the  next  by  the  passing 
days  and  years. 

Thus  she  had  thought  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's 
small,  the  Corso  narrow  and  Trajan's  Column  a 
column  like  any  other;  she  had  not  noticed  the 
Forum  as  she  drove  past  it;  and  she  had  been  unable 
to  think  of  a  single  emperor  when  she  was  at  the 
Palatine. 

Now  she  was  home  again,  tired,  and  was  resting 
a  little  and  meditating;  she  felt  depressed,  yet  she 
enjoyed  her  vague  reflections  and  the  silence  about 
her  in  the  big  house,  to  which  most  of  the  boarders 
had  not  yet  returned.  She  thought  of  the  Hague, 
of  her  big  family,  her  father,  mother,  brothers  and 
sisters,  to  whom  she  had  said  good-bye  for  a  long 
time  to  go  abroad.  Her  father,  a  retired  colonel 
of  hussars  living  on  his  pension,  with  no  great  pri- 
vate means,  had  been  unable  to  contribute  anything 
to  the  fulfilment  of  her  caprice,  as  he  called  it;  and 

ii 


12 

f 

she  would  not  have  been  able  to  satisfy  that  caprice, 
of  beginning  a  new  life,  but  for  a  small  legacy  which 
she  had  inherited  some  years  ago  from  a  godmother. 
She  was  glad  to  be  more  or  less  independent,  though 
she  felt  the  selfishness  of  her  independence. 

But  what  could  she  have  done  for  her  family- 
circle,  after  the  scandal  of  her  divorce?  She  was 
weak  and  selfish,  she  knew  it;  but  she  had  received 
a  blow  under  which  she  had  at  first  expected  to  suc- 
cumb. And,  when  she  found  herself  surviving  it, 
she  had  mustered  such  energy  as  she  possessed  and 
said  to  herself  that  she  could  not  go  on  existing  in 
that  same  narrow  circle  of  her  sisters  and  her  girl 
friends;  and  she  had  forced  her  life  into  a  different 
path.  She  had  always  had  the  knack  of  creating 
an  apparently  new  frock  out  of  an  old  dress,  trans- 
forming a  last  year's  hat  into  one  of  the  latest  fash- 
ion. Even  so  she  had  now  done  with  her  distraught 
and  wretched  life,  all  battered  and  broken  as  it 
was:  she  had  gathered  together,  as  in  a  fit  of  econ- 
omy, all  that  was  left,  all  that  was  still  serviceable ; 
and  out  of  those  remnants  she  had  made  herself  a 
new  existence.  But  this  new  life  was  unable  to 
breathe  in  the  old  atmosphere:  it  felt  aimless  in  it 
and  estranged ;  and  she  had  managed  to  force  it  into 
a  different  path,  in  spite  of  all  the  opposition  of  her 
family  and  friends.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have 
succeeded  so  readily  if  she  had  not  been  so  com- 
pletely shattered.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have  felt 
this  energy  if  she  had  suffered  only  a  little.  She 
had  her  strength  and  she  had  her  weakness;  she  was 
very  simple  and  yet  she  was  very  various;  and  it 
was  perhaps  just  this  complexity  that  had  been  the 
saving  of  her  youth. 

Besides,  she  was  actually  very  young,  only  twenty- 
three;  and  in  youth  one  possesses  an  unconscious 
vitality,  notwithstanding  any  apparent  weakness. 


THE  INEVITABLE  13 

And  her  contradictory  qualities  gave  her  equilibrium 
and  saved  her  from  falling  over  into  the  abyss.  .  .  . 
All  this  passed  vaguely  through  her  mind  as 
clouds  pass  before  the  eyes,  not  with  the  concise- 
ness of  words  but  with  the  misty  indefiniteness  of  a 
dreamy  fatigue.  As  she  lay  there,  she  did  not  look 
as  if  she  had  ever  exerted  the  strength  to  give  a  new 
path  to  her  life:  a  pale,  delicate  woman,  slender, 
with  drooping  movements,  lying  on  a  sofa  in  her  not 
very  fresh  dressing-gown,  with  its  faded  pink  and 
its  rumpled  lace.  And  yet  there  was  a  certain 
poetical  fragrance  about  her  personality,  despite  her 
weary  eyes  and  the  limp  outlines  of  her  attire,  despite 
the  boarding-house  room,  with  its  air  of  quickly  im- 
provised comfort,  a  comfort  which  was  a  matter  of 
tact  rather  than  reality  and  could  be  packed  away  in 
a  single  trunk.  Her  frail  figure,  her  pale  and  deli- 
cate rather  than  beautiful  features  were  surrounded, 
as  by  an  aura,  by  that  atmosphere  of  personal  poetry 
which  she  unconsciously  radiated,  which  she  shed 
from  her  eyes  upon  the  things  which  she  beheld, 
from  her  fingers  upon  the  things  which  she  touched. 
To  those  who  did  not  like  her,  this  peculiar  atmo- 
sphere, this  unusualness,  this  eccentricity,  this  unlike- 
ness  to  the  typical  young  woman  of  the  Hague,  was 
the  very  thing  with  which  they  reproached  her.  To 
those  who  liked  her,  it  was  partly  talent,  partly  soul; 
something  peculiar  to  her  which  seemed  almost 
genius;  yet  it  was  perturbing.  It  invested  her  with 
a  great  charm;  it  gave  pause  for  thought  and  it 
promised  much:  more,  perhaps,  than  could  be  real- 
ized. And  this  woman  was  the  child  of  her  time 
but  especially  of  her  environment  and  therefore  so 
unfinished,  revealing  disparity  against  disparity,  in  an 
equilibrium  of  opposing  forces,  which  might  be  her 
undoing  or  her  salvation,  but  were  in  either  case  her 
fate. 


14  THE  INEVITABLE 

She  felt  lonely  in  Italy.  She  had  stayed  for  weeks 
at  Florence,  where  she  tried  to  lead  a  full  life,  en- 
riched by  art  and  history.  There,  it  was  true,  she 
forgot  herself  to  a  great  extent,  but  she  still  felt 
lonely.  She  had  spent  a  fortnight  at  Siena,  but 
Siena  had  depressed  her,  with  its  sombre  streets, 
its  dead  palaces;  and  she  had  yearned  for  Rome. 
But  she  had  not  found  Rome  yet  that  afternoon. 
And,  though  she  felt  tired,  she  felt  above  all  things 
lonely,  terribly  lonely  and  useless  in  a  great  world, 
in  a  great  town,  a  town  in  which  one  feels  the  great- 
ness, uselessness  and  vast  antiquity  of  things  more 
perhaps  than  anywhere  else.  She  felt  like  a  little 
atom  of  suffering,  like  an  insect,  an  ant,  half-trodden, 
half-crushed,  among  the  immense  domes  of  Rome, 
of  whose  presence  out  of  doors  she  was  subtly  con- 
scious. 

And  her  hand  wandered  vacantly  over  her  books, 
which  she  had  stacked  punctiliously  and  conscien- 
tiously on  a  little  table:  some  translations  of  the 
classics,  Ovid,  Tacitus,  together  with  Dante,  Pe- 
trach,  Tasso.  It  was  growing  dusk  in  her  room, 
there  was  no  light  to  read  by,  she  was  too  much 
enervated  to  ring  for  a  lamp;  a  chilliness  hovered 
in  her  little  room,  now  that  the  sun  had  quite  gone 
down,  and  she  had  forgotten  to  ask  for  a  fire  on  that 
first  day.  Loneliness  was  all  about  her,  her  suffer- 
ing pained  her;  her  soul  craved  for  a  fellow-soul, 
but  her  mouth  craved  for  a  kiss,  her  arms  for  him, 
once  her  husband;  and,  turning  on  her  cushions  and 
wringing  her  hands,  she  prayed  deep  down  in  her- 
self: 

"  O  God,  tell  me  what  to  do  1  " 


CHAPTER  III 

At  dinner  there  was  a  buzz  of  voices;  the  three 
or  four  long  tables  were  all  full;  the  marchesa  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  centre  table.  Now  and  then  she 
beckoned  impatiently  to  Giuseppe,  the  old  major- 
domo,  who  had  dropped  a  spoon  at  an  archducal 
court;  and  the  unfledged  little  waiters  rushed  about 
breathlessly.  Cornelie  found  the  obliging  stout 
gentleman,  whom  the  German  ladies  called  Mr.  Rud- 
yard,  sitting  opposite  her  and  her  fiasco  of  Genzano 
beside  her  plate.  She  thanked  Mr.  Rudyard  with 
a  smile  and  made  the  usual  remarks:  how  she  had 
been  for  a  drive  that  afternoon  and  had  made  her 
first  acquaintance  with  Rome,  the  Forum,  the  Pin- 
cio.  She  talked  to  the  German  ladies  and  to  the 
English  one,  who  was  always  so  tired  with  her  sight- 
seeing; and  the  Germans,  a  Baronin  and  the  Baron- 
esse  her  daughter,  laughed  with  her  at  the  two 
aesthetes  whom  Cornelie  had  come  upon  that  morn- 
ing in  the  drawing-room.  The  two  were  sitting 
some  distance  away,  lank  and  angular,  grimy-haired, 
in  curiously  cut  evening-dress,  which  showed  the 
breast  and  arms  warmly  covered  with  a  Jaeger  un- 
dervest,  on  which,  in  their  turn,  lay  strings  of  large 
blue  beads.  Their  eyes  browsed  over  the  long  table, 
as  though  they  were  pitying  everybody  who  had  come 
to  Rome  to  learn  about  art,  because  they  two  alone 
knew  what  art  was.  While  eating,  which  they  did 
unpleasantly,  almost  with  their  fingers,  they  read 
aesthetic  books,  wrinkling  their  brows  and  now  and 
then  looking  up  angrily,  because  the  people  about 
them  were  talking.  With  their  self-conceit,  their 
impossible  manners,  their  worse  than  tasteless  dress 
and  their  great  air  of  superiority,  they  represented 

is 


1 6  THE  INEVITABLE 

types  of  travelling  Englishwomen  that  are  never 
met  except  in  Italy.  They  were  unanimouslyVriti- 
cized  at  the  table.  They  came  to  the  Pension  Bel- 
loni  every  winter  and  made  drawings  in  water-colours 
in  the  Forum  or  the  Via  Appia.  And  they  were  so 
remarkable  in  their  unprecedented  originality,  in 
their  grimy  angularity,  with  their  evening-dresses, 
their  Jaegers,  their  strings  of  blue  beads,  their 
aesthetic  books  and  their  meat-picking  fingers,  that 
all  eyes  were  constantly  wandering  in  their  direction, 
as  though  under  the  influence  of  a  Medusa  spell. 

The  young  baroness,  a  type  out  of  the  Fliegende 
Blatter,  witty  and  quick,  with  her  little  round,  Ger- 
m'an  face  and  arched,  pencilled  eyebrows,  was  laugh- 
ing with  Cornelie  and  showing  her  a  thumb-nail 
caricature  which  she  had  made  of  the  two  aesthetic 
ladies  in  her  sketch-book,  when  Giuseppe  conducted 
a  young  lady  to  the  end  of  the  table  where  Cornelie 
and  Rudyard  sat  opposite  each  other.  She  had  evi- 
dently just  arrived,  said  "  'Evening  "  to  everybody 
near  her  and  sat  down  with  a  great  rustling.  It 
was  at  once  apparent  that  she  was  a  American,  al- 
most too  good-looking,  too  young,  to  be  travelling 
alone  like  that,  with  a  smiling  self-possession,  as  if 
she  were  at  home:  a  very  white  complexion,  very 
fine  dark  eyes,  teeth  like  a  dentist's  advertisement, 
her  full  breast  moulded  in  mauve  cloth  plentifully 
decorated  with  silver  braid,  on  her  heavily-waved 
hair  a  large  mauve  hat  with  a  cascade  of  black 
ostrich-feathers,  fastened  by  an  over-large  paste 
buckle.  At  every  movement  the  silk  of  her  petti- 
coat rustled,  the  feathers  nodded,  the  paste  buckle 
gleamed.  And,  notwithstanding  all  this  showiness, 
she  was  child-like :  she  was  perhaps  just  twenty,  with 
an  ingenuous  expression  in  her  eyes.  She  at  once 
spoke  to  Cornelie,  to  Rudyard;  said  that  she  was 
tired,  that  she  had  come  from  Naples,  that  she  had 


THE  INEVITABLE  17 

IP 
been  dancing  last  night  at  Prince  Cibo's,  that  her 

name  was  Miss  Urania  Hope,  that  her  father  lived 
in  Chicago,  that  she  had  two  brothers  who,  in  spite 
of  her  father's  money,  were  working  on  a  farm 
in  the  Far  West,  but  that  she  had  been  brought  up 
as  a  spoilt  child  by  her  father,  who,  however,  wanted 
her  to  be  able  to  stand  on  her  own  feet  and  was 
therefore  making  her  travel  by  herself  in  the  Old 
World,  in  dear  old  Italy.  She  was  delighted  to 
hear  that  Cornelie  was  also  travelling  alone;  and 
Rudyard  chaffed  the  ladies  about  their  modern  views, 
but  the  Baronin  and  the  Baronesse  applauded  them. 
Miss  Hope  at  once  took  a  liking  to  her  Dutch  fel- 
low-traveller and  wanted  to  arrange  joint  excur- 
sions; but  Cornelie,  withdrawing  into  herself,  made 
a  tactful  excuse,  said  that  her  time  was  fully  en- 
gaged, that  she  wanted  to  study  in  the  museums. 

"  So  serious?  "  asked  Miss  Hope,  respectfully. 

And  the  petticoat  rustled,  the  plumes  nodded,  the 
paste  buckle  gleamed. 

She  made  on  Cornelie  the  impression  of  a  gaudy 
butterfly,  which,  sportive  and  unthinking,  might 
easily  one  day  dash  itself  to  pieces  against  the  hot- 
house windows  of  our  cabined  existence.  She  felt 
no  attraction  towards  this  strange,  pretty  little  crea- 
ture, who  looked  like  a  child  and  a  cocotte  in  one; 
but  she  felt  sorry  for  her,  she  did  not  know  why. 

After  dinner,  Rudyard  proposed  to  take  the  two 
German  ladies  for  a  little  walk.  The  younger 
baroness  came  to  Cornelie  and  asked  if  she  would 
come  too,  to  see  Rome  by  moonlight,  quite  close, 
from  the  Villa  Medici.  She  felt  grateful  for  the 
kindly  suggestion  and  was  just  going  to  put  on  her 
hat,  when  Miss  Hope  ran  after  her: 

"  Stay  and  sit  with  me  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk  with  the  Baronin,"  Cor- 
nelie replied. 


1 8  THE  INEVITABLE 

"That  German  lady?" 

11  Yes." 

"  Is  she  a  noblewoman?  " 

"  I  presume  so." 

"Are  there  many  titled  people  in  the  house?" 
asked  Miss  Hope,  eagerly. 

Cornelie  laughed: 

"  I  don't  know.     I  only  arrived  this  morning." 

"  I  believe  there  are.  I  heard  that  there  were 
many  titled  people  here.  Are  you  one?  " 

"  I  was  I  "  Cornelie  laughed.  "  But  I  had  to  give 
up  my  title." 

"  What  a  shame !  "  Miss  Hope  exclaimed.  "  I 
love  titles.  Do  you  know  what  I've  got?  An  al- 
bum with  the  coats  of  arms  of  all  sorts  of  families 
and  another  album  with  patterns  of  silk  and  bro- 
cade from  each  of  the  Queen  of  Italy's  ball-dresses. 
Would  you  care  to  see  it?  " 

"Very  much  indeed!  "  Cornelie  laughed.  "  But 
I  must  put  on  my  hat  now." 

She  went  and  returned  in  a  hat  and  cloak;  the 
German  ladies  and  Rudyard  were  waiting  in  the  hall 
and  asked  what  she  was  laughing  at.  She  caused 
great  merriment  by  telling  them  about  the  album 
with  the  patterns  of  the  queen's  ball-dresses. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked  the  Baronin,  as  she 
walked  in  front  with  her,  along  the  Via  Sistina,  while 
the  Baronesse  and  Rudyard  followed. 

She  thought  the  Baronin  a  charming  person,  but 
she  was  surprised  to  find,  in  this  German  woman, 
who  belonged  to  the  titled  military-class,  a  coldly 
cynical  view  of  life  which  was  not  exactly  that  of 
her  Berlin  environment. 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  Baronin  answered,  with  an 
air  of  indifference.  "  We  travel  a  great  deal.  We 
have  no  house  in  Berlin  at  present.  We  want  to 
make  the  most  of  our  stay  abroad.  Mr.  Rudyard 


THE  INEVITABLE  19 

is  very  pleasant.  He  helps  us  in  all  sorts  of  ways: 
tickets  for  a  papal  mass,  introductions  here,  invita- 
tions there.  He  seems  to  have  plenty  of  influence. 
What  do  I  care  who  or  what  he  is!  Else  agrees 
with  me.  I  accept  what  he  give  us  and  for  the  rest 
I  don't  try  to  fathom  him." 

They  walked  on.  The  Baronin  took  Cornelie's 
arm: 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  think  us  more  cynical  than 
we  are.  I  hardly  know  you,  but  I've  felt  somehow 
drawn  towards  you.  Strange,  isn't  it,  when  one's 
abroad  like  this  and  has  one's  first  talk  at  a  table- 
d'hote,  over  a  skinny  chicken?  Don't  think  us 
shabby  or  cynical.  Oh,  dear,  perhaps  we  are !  Our 
cosmopolitan,  irresponsible,  unsettled  life  makes  us 
ungenerous,  cynical  and  selfish.  Very  selfish.  Rud- 
yard  shows  us  many  kindnesses.  Why  should  I  not 
accept  them?  I  don't  care  who  or  what  he  is.  I 
am  not  committing  myself  in  any  way." 

Cornelie  looked  round  involuntarily.  In  the 
nearly  dark  street  she  saw  Rudyard  and  the  young 
Baronesse,  almost  whispering  and  mysteriously  in- 
timate. 

"  And  does  your  daughter  think  so  too?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  We  are  not  committing  ourselves  in 
any  way.  We  do  not  even  particularly  like  him, 
with  his  pock-marked  face  and  his  dirty  finger-nails. 
We  merely  accept  his  introductions.  Do  as  we  do. 
Or  ...  don't.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  form  if 
you  don't.  I  ...  I  have  become  a  great  egoist, 
through  travelling.  What  do  I  care?  .  .  ." 

The  dark  street  seemed  to  invite  confidences;  and 
Cornelie  to  some  extent  understood  this  cynical  in- 
difference, particularly  in  a  woman  reared  in  narrow 
principles  of  duty  and  morality.  It  was  certainly 
not  good  form;  but  was  it  not  weariness  brought 
about  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  life?  In  any  case  she 


20  THE  INEVITABLE 

vaguely  understood  it :  that  tone  of  indifference,  that 
careless  shrugging  of  the  shoulders.  .  .  . 

They  turned  the  corner  of  the  Hotel  Massier  and 
approached  the  Villa  Medici.  The  full  moon  was 
pouring  down  its  flood  of  white  radiance  and  Rome 
lay  in  the  flawless  blue  glamour  of  the  night.  Over- 
flowing the  brimming  basin  of  the  fountain,  beneath 
the  black  ilexes,  whose  leafage  held  the  picture  of 
Rome  in  an  ebony  frame,  the  waste  water  splashed 
and  clattered. 

"  Rome  must  be  very  beautiful,"  said  Cornelie, 
softly. 

Rudyard  and  the  Baronesse  had  come  nearer  and 
heard  what  she  said: 

"  Rome  is  beautiful,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "  And 
Rome  is  more.  Rome  is  a  great  consolation  to  many 
people." 

His  words,  spoken  in  the  blue  moonlit  night,  im- 
pressed her.  The  city  seemed  to  lie  in  mystical 
billows  at  her  feet.  She  looked  at  him,  as  he  stood 
before  her  in  his  black  coat,  showing  but  little  linen, 
the  same  stout,  civil  gentleman.  His  voice  was 
very  penetrating,  with  a  rich  note  of  conviction  in  it. 
She  looked  at  him  long,  uncertain  of  herself  and 
vaguely  conscious  of  an  approaching  intimation,  but 
still  antipathetic. 

Then  he  added,  as  though  he  did  not  wish  her  to 
meditate  too  deeply  the  words  which  he  had  ut- 
tered: 

"  A  great  consolation  to  many  .  .  .  because 
beauty  consoles." 

And  she  thought  his  last  words  an  aesthetic  com- 
monplace ;  but  he  had  meant  her  to  think  so. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Those  first  days  in  Rome  tired  Cornelie  greatly. 
She  did  too  much,  as  every  one  does  who  has  just 
arrived  in  Rome;  she  wanted  to  take  in  the  whole 
city  at  once;  and  the  distances,  although  covered 
in  a  carriage,  and  the  endless  galleries  in  the  mu- 
seums resulted  in  producing  physical  exhaustion. 
Moreover  she  was  constantly  experiencing  disap- 
pointments, in  respect  of  pictures,  statues  or  build- 
ings. At  first  she  dared  not  own  to  these  disappoint- 
ments; but  one  afternoon,  feeling  dead-tired,  after 
she  had  been  painfully  disappointed  in  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  she  owned  up  to  herself.  Everything  that 
she  saw  that  was  already  known  to  her  from  her 
previous  studies  disappointed  her.  Then  she  re- 
solved to  give  sight-seeing  a  rest.  And,  after  those 
fatiguing  days,  when  every  morning  and  every  after- 
noon was  spent  out  of  doors,  it  was  a  luxury  to  sur- 
render herself  to  the  unconscious  current  of  daily 
life.  She  remained  at  home  in  the  mornings, 
wrapped  in  a  tea-gown,  in  her  cosy  little  bird-cage 
of  a  sitting-room,  writing  letters,  dreaming  a  little, 
with  her  arms  folded  behind  her  head;  she  read 
Ovid  and  Petrarch,  or  listened  to  a  couple  of  street- 
musicians,  who,  with  their  quavering  tenors,  to  the 
shrill  whining  of  their  guitars,  filled  the  silent  street 
with  a  sobbing  passion  of  music.  At  lunch  she  con- 
sidered that  she  had  been  lucky  in  her  pension,  in  her 
little  corner  at  the  table.  She  was  interested  in 
Baronin  von  Rothkirch,  with  her  indifferent,  aristo- 
cratic condescension  towards  Rudyard,  because  she 

21 


22  THE  INEVITABLE 

saw  how  residence  abroad  can  draw  a  person  out  of 
the  narrow  ring  of  caste  principles.  The  young 
Baronesse,  who  cared  nothing  about  life  and  merely 
sketched  and  painted,  interested  her  because  of  her 
whispering  intimacy  with  Rudyard,  which  she  failed 
to  understand.  Miss  Hope  was  so  ingenious,  so 
childishly  irrational,  that  Cornelie  could  not  imagine 
how  old  Hope,  the  rich  stockinet-manufacturer  over 
in  Chicago,  allowed  this  child  to  travel  about  alone, 
with  her  far  too  generous  monthly  allowance  and  her 
total  ignorance  of  the  world  and  people;  and  Rud- 
yard himself,  though  she  sometimes  felt  an  aver- 
sion for  him,  attracted  her  in  spite  of  that  aversion. 
Although  she  had  so  far  formed  no  deeper  friend- 
ship with  any  of  her  fellow-boarders,  at  any  rate 
they  were  people  to  whom  she  was  able  to  talk;  and 
the  conversation  at  table  was  a  diversion  amid  the 
solitude  of  the  rest  of  the  day. 

For  in  the  afternoons,  during  this  period  of  fa- 
tigue and  disappointment,  she  would  merely  go  for 
a  short  walk  by  herself  down  the  Corso  or  on  the 
Pincio  and  then  return  home,  make  her  own  tea 
in  her  little  silver  tea-pot  and  sit  dreaming  by  the 
log  fire,  in  the  dusk,  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

And  the  brightly-lit  dining-room  with  the  Guer- 
cino  ceiling  was  gay  and  cheerful.  The  pension  was 
crammed:  the  marchesa  had  given  up  her  own  room 
and  was  sleeping  in  the  bath-room.  A  hum  of  voices 
buzzed  around  the  tables;  the  waiters  rushed  to 
and  fro;  spoons  and  forks  clattered.  There  was 
none  of  the  melancholy  spirit  of  so  many  tables- 
d'hote.  The  people  knew  one  another;  and  the 
excitement  of  Roman  life,  the  oxygen  in  the  Roman 
air  seemed  to  lend  an  added  vivacity  to  the  gestures 
and  conversation.  Amidst  this  vivacity  the  two 
grimy  aesthetic  ladies  attracted  attention  by  their  un- 


THE  INEVITABLE  23 

varying  pose,  with  their  eternal  evening-dress,  their 
Jaegers,  their  beads,  the  fat  books  which  they  read, 
their  angry  looks  because  people  were  talking. 

After  dinner  they  sat  in  the  drawing-room  or  in 
the  hall,  made  friends  here  and  there  and  talked 
about  Rome,  Rome,  Rome.  There  was  always  a 
great  fuss  about  the  music  in  the  different  churches: 
they  consulted  the  Herald;  they  asked  Rudyard,  who 
knew  everything,  and  gathered  round  him;  and  he, 
fat  and  polite  as  ever,  smiled  and  distributed  tickets 
and  named  the  day  and  hour  at  which  an  important 
service  would  be  held  in  this  church  or  in  that.  To 
English  ladies,  who  were  not  fully  informed,  he 
would  now  and  then,  as  it  were  casually,  impart  de- 
tails about  the  complexities  of  Catholic  ritual  and 
the  Catholic  hierarchy;  he  explained  the  nationali- 
ties denoted  by  the  various  colours  of  the  seminarists 
whom  you  met  in  shoals  of  an  afternoon  on  the 
Pincio,  staring  at  St.  Peter's,  in  ecstasy  over  St. 
Peter's,  the  mighty  symbol  of  their  mighty  religion; 
he  set  forth  the  distinction  between  a  church  and  a 
basilica ;  he  related  anecdotes  of  the  private  life  of 
Leo  XIII.  His  manner  of  speaking  of  all  these 
things  possessed  an  insinuating  charm:  the  English 
ladies,  greedy  for  information,  hur.g  on  his  lips, 
thought  him  too  awfully  nice,  asked  nim  for  a  thou- 
sand particulars. 

These  days  were  a  great  rest  for  Cornelie.  She 
recovered  from  her  fatigue  and  felt  indifferent  to- 
wards Rome.  But  she  did  not  think  of  leaving  any 
the  sooner.  Whether  she  was  here  or  elsewhere 
was  all  the  same  to  her:  she  had  to  be  somewhere. 
Besides,  the  pension  was  good,  her  fellow-boarders 
pleasant  and  cheerful.  She  no  longer  read  Hare's 
Walks  in  Rome  or  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  but  she 
read  Ouida's  Ariadne  over  again.  She  did  not  care 
for  the  book  as  much  as  she  had  done  three  years 


24  THE  INEVITABLE 

before,  at  the  Hague;  and  after  that  she  read  no- 
thing. But  she  amused  herself  with  the  von  Roth- 
kirch  ladies  for  a  whole  evening,  looking  over  Miss 
Hope's  album  of  seals  and  collection  of  patterns. 
How  mad  those  Americans  were  on  titles  and  roy- 
alties !  The  Baronin  good-naturedly  contributed  an 
impression  of  her  own  arms  to  the  album.  And  the 
patterns  were  greatly  admired:  gold  brocades;  silks 
heavily  interwoven  with  silver;  spangled  tulles. 
Miss  Hope  related  how  she  had  come  by  them:  she 
knew  one  of  the  queen's  waiting-women,  who  had 
formerly  been  in  service  with  an  American;  and  this 
waiting-woman  was  now  able  to  procure  the  pat- 
terns for  her  at  a  high  price:  a  precious  bit  of  ma- 
terial picked  up  while  the  queen  was  trying  on,  or 
sometimes  even  cut  out  of  a  broad  seam.  The  child 
was  prouder  of  her  collection  of  patterns  than  an 
Italian  prince  of  his  paintings,  said  Baronin  von 
Rothkirch.  But,  notwithstanding  this  absurdity, 
this  vanity,  Cornelie  came  to  like  the  pretty  American 
girl  because  of  her  candid  and  unsophisticated  na- 
ture. She  looked  most  attractive  in  the  evening, 
in  a  black  low-cut  dress,  or  in  a  rose  chiffon  blouse. 
For  that  matter,  it  was  a  different  frock  every  night. 
She  possessed  a  kaleidoscopic  collection  of  dresses, 
blouses  and  jewels.  She  would  walk  through  the 
ruins  of  the  Forum  in  a  tailor-made  suit  of  cream 
cloth,  lined  with  orange  silk;  and  her  white  lace 
petticoat  flitted  airily  over  the  foundations  of  the 
Basilica  Julia  or  the  Temple  of  Vesta.  Her  gaily- 
trimmed  hats  introduced  patches  of  colour  from  Re- 
gent Street  or  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  into  the  tragic 
seriousness  of  the  Colosseum  or  the  ruined  palace 
of  the  Palatine.  The  young  Baronesse  teased  her 
about  her  orange  silk  lining,  so  in  harmony  with  the 
Forum,  about  her  hats,  so  in  keeping  with  the  se- 


THE  INEVITABLE  25 

riousness  of  a  place  of  Christian  martyrdom,  but  she 
was  never  angry: 

"  It's  a  nice  hat  anyway!  "  she  would  say,  in  her 
Yankee  drawl,  which  always  afforded  a  good  view 
of  her  pretty  teeth  but  made  her  strain  her  mouth 
as  though  she  were  cracking  filberts. 

And  the  child  enjoyed  everything,  enjoyed  the 
Baronin  and  the  Baronesse,  enjoyed  being  at  a  pen- 
sion kept  by  a  decayed  Italian  marchioness.  And, 
as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  Marchesa  Belloni's 
grey,  leonine  head,  she  would  make  a  rush  for  her  — 
because  a  marchioness  is  higher  than  a  baroness, 
said  Madame  von  Rothkirch  —  drag  her  into  a 
corner  and  if  possible  monopolize  her  throughout 
the  evening.  Rudyard  would  then  join  them;  and 
Cornelie,  seeing  this,  wondered  what  Rudyard  was, 
who  he  was  and  what  he  was  about.  But  this  did 
not  interest  the  Baronin,  who  had  just  received  a 
card  for  a  mass  in  the  papal  chapel;  and  the  young 
Baronesse  merely  said  that  he  told  legends  of  the 
saints  so  nicely,  when  explaining  the  pictures  to  her 
in  the  Doria  and  the  Corsini. 


CHAPTER  V 

One  evening  Cornelie  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Dutch  family  beside  whom  the  Marchesa  had 
first  wished  to  place  her  at  table :  Mrs.  van  der  Staal 
and  her  two  daughters.  They  too  were  spending 
the  whole  winter  in  Rome:  they  had  friends  there 
and  went  out  visiting.  The  conversation  flowed 
smoothly;  and  mevrouw  invited  Cornelie  to  come 
and  have  a  chat  in  her  sitting-room.  Next  day  she 
accompanied  her  new  acquaintances  to  the  Vatican 
and  heard  that  mevrouw  was  expecting  her  son,  who 
was  coming  to  Rome  from  Florence  to  continue  his 
archaeological  studies. 

Cornelie  was  glad  to  meet  at  the  hotel  a  Dutch 
element  that  was  not  antipathetic.  She  thought  it 
pleasant  to  talk  Dutch  again  and  she  confessed  as 
much.  In  a  day  or  two  she  had  become  intimate 
with  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  the  two  girls;  and  on 
the  evening  when  young  Van  der  Staal  arrived  she 
opened  her  heart  more  than  she  had  ever  thought 
that  she  could  do  to  strangers  whom  she  had  known 
for  barely  a  few  days. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  Van  der  Staal's  sitting- 
room,  Cornelie  in  a  low  chair  by  the  blazing  log- 
fire,  for  the  evening  was  chilly.  They  had  been 
talking  about  the  Hague,  about  her  divorce;  and 
she  was  now  speaking  of  Italy,  of  herself : 

"  I  no  longer  see  anything,"  she  confessed. 
"  Rome  has  quite  bewildered  me.  I  can't  distin- 
guish a  colour,  an  outline.  I  don't  recognize  peo- 
ple. They  all  seem  to  whirl  round  me.  Some- 
times I  feel  a  need  to  sit  alone  for  hours  in  my  bird- 
cage upstairs,  to  recollect  myself.  This  morning, 

26 


THE  INEVITABLE  27 

in  the  Vatican,  I  don't  know:  I  remember  nothing. 
It  is  all  grey  and  fuzzy  around  me.  Then  the  peo- 
ple in  the  boarding-house :  the  same  faces  every 
day.  I  see  them  and  yet  I  don't  see  them.  I  see 
...  I  see  Madame  von  Rothkirch  and  her  daugh- 
ter, I  see  the  fair  Uramia  .  .  .  and  Rudyard  .  .  . 
and  the  little  Englishwoman,  Miss  Taylor,  who  is 
always  so  tired  with  sight-seeing  and  who  thinks 
everything  most  exquisite.  But  my  memory  is  so 
bad  that,  when  I  am  alone,  I  have  to  think  to  my- 
self: Madame  von  Rothkirch  is  tall  and  stately, 
with  the  smile  of  the  German  Empress  —  she  is 
rather  like  her  —  talking  fast  and  yet  with  indiffer- 
ence, as  though  the  words  just  fell  indifferently  from 
her  lips.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  a  good  observer,"  said  Van  der  Staal. 

"Oh,  don't  say  thatl"  said  Cornelie,  almost 
vexed.  "  I  see  nothing  and  I  can't  remember.  I 
receive  no  impressions.  Everything  around  me  is 
colourless.  I  really  don't  know  why  I  have  come 
abroad.  .  .  .  When  I  am  alone,  I  think  of  the  peo- 
ple whom  I  meet.  I  know  Madame  von  Rothkirch 
now  and  I  know  Else.  Such  a  round,  merry  face, 
with  arched  eyebrows,  and  always  a  joke  or  a  witti- 
cism: I  find  it  tiring  sometimes,  she  makes  me 
laugh  so.  Still  they  are  very  nice.  And  the  fair 
Urania.  She  tells  me  everything.  She  is  as  com- 
municative ...  as  I  am  at  this  moment.  And 
Rudyard:  I  see  him  before  me  too." 

'  Rudyard!  "  smiled  mevrouw  and  the  girls. 

''What  is  he?"  Cornelie  asked,  inquisitively. 
"  He  is  so  civil,  he  ordered  my  wine  for  me,  he  can 
always  get  one  all  sorts  of  cards." 

"  Don't  you  know  what  Rudyard  is?  "  asked  Mrs. 
van  der  Staal. 

"No;  and  Mrs.  von  Rothkirch  doesn't  know 
either." 


28 

"  Then  you  had  better  be  careful,"  laughed  the 
girls. 

"  Are  you  a  Catholic?  "  asked  mevrouw. 

11  No." 

"Nor  the  fair  Urania  either?  Nor  Mrs.  von 
Rothkirch?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  that  is  why  la  Belloni  put  Rudyard  at 
your  table.  Rudyard  is  a  Jesuit.  Every  pension 
in  Rome  has  a  Jesuit  who  lives  there  free  of  charge, 
if  the  proprietor  is  a  good  friend  of  the  Church,  and 
who  tries  to  win  souls  by  making  himself  especially 
agreeable." 

Cornelie  refused  to  believe  it. 

"  You  can  take  my  word  for  it,"  mevrouw  con- 
tinued, "  that  in  a  pension  like  this,  a  first-class  pen- 
sion, a  pension  with  a  reputation,  a  great  deal  of 
intrigue  goes  on." 

"La  Belloni?"  Cornelie  enquired. 

"  Our  marchesa  is  a  thorough-paced  intrigante. 
Last  winter,  three  English  sisters  were  converted 
here." 

"By  Rudyard?" 

"  No,  by  another  priest.  Rudyard  is  here  for  the 
first  time  this  winter." 

"  Rudyard  walked  quite  a  long  way  with  me  in 
the  street  this  morning,"  said  young  Van  der  Staal. 
"  I  let  him  talk,  I  heard  all  he  had  to  say." 

Cornelie  fell  back  in  her  chair: 

"  I  am  tired  of  people,"  she  said,  with  the  strange 
sincerity  which  was  hers.  "  I  should  like  to  sleep 
for  a  month,  without  seeing  anybody." 

And,  after  a  short  pause,  she  got  up,  said  good- 
night and  went  to  bed,  while  everything  swam  be- 
fore her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

She  remained  indoors  for  a  day  or  two  and  had 
her  meals  served  in  her  room.  One  morning,  how- 
ever, she  was  going  for  a  stroll  in  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese,  when  she  met  young  Van  der  Staal,  on  his 
bicycle. 

"  Don't  you  ride?  "  he  asked,  jumping  off. 

"No."   ' 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  is  an  exercise  which  doesn't  suit  my  style," 
Cornelie  replied,  vexed  at  meeting  any  one  who 
disturbed  the  solitude  of  her  stroll. 

"  May  I  walk  with  you?  " 

11  Certainly." 

He  gave  his  machine  into  the  charge  of  the  porter 
at  the  gate  and  walked  on  with  her,  quite  naturally, 
without  saying  very  much : 

"  It's  beautiful  here,"  he  remarked. 

His  words  seemed  to  convey  a  simple  meaning. 
She  looked  at  him,  for  the  first  time,  attentively. 

"  You're  an  archaeologist?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  said,  deprecatingly. 

;' What  are  you,  then?  " 

"  Nothing.  Mamma  says  that,  just  to  excuse  me. 
I  am  nothing  and  a  very  useless  member  of  society 
at  that.  And  I  am  not  even  well  off." 

"  But  you  are  studying,  aren't  you?  " 

"  No.  I  do  a  little  casual  reading.  My  sisters 
call  it  studying." 

"  Do  you  like  going  about,  as  your  sisters  do?  " 

"  No,  I  hate  it.     I  never  go  with  them." 

"  Don't  you  like  meeting  and  studying  people?  " 

"  No.     I  like  pictures,  statues  and  trees." 


30  THE  INEVITABLE 

11  A  poet?" 

"  No.     Nothing.     I  am  nothing,  really."         , 

She  looked  at  him,  with  increased  attention.  He 
was  walking  very  simply  by  her  side,  a  tall,  thin 
fellow  of  perhaps  twenty^six,  more  of  a  boy  than 
a  man  in  face  and  figure,  but  endowed  with  a  cert- 
ain assurance  and  restfulness  that  made  him  seem 
older  than  his  years.  He  was  pale;  he  had  dark, 
cool,  almost  reproachful  eyes;  and  his  long,  lean 
figure,  in  his  badly-kept  cycling-suit,  betrayed  a  slight 
indifference,  as  though  he  did  not  care  what  his  arms 
and  legs  looked  like. 

He  said  nothing  but  walked  on  pleasantly,  unem- 
barrassed, without  finding  it  necessary  to  talk.  Cor- 
nelie,  however,  grew  fidgety  and  sought  for  words: 

"  It  is  beautiful  here,"  she  stammered. 

"  Oh,  it's  very  beautiful !  "  he  replied,  calmly, 
without  seeing  that  she  was  constrained.  "  So 
green,  so  spacious,  so  peaceful:  those  long  avenues, 
those  vistas  of  avenues,  like  an  antique  arch,  over 
yonder;  and,  far  away  in  the  distance,  look,  St. 
Peter's,  always  St.  Peter's.  It's  a  pity  about  those 
queer  things  lower  down :  that  restaurant,  that  milk- 
tent.  People  spoil  everything  nowadays.  .  .  .  Let 
us  sit  down  here :  it  is  so  lovely  here." 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench. 

"  It  is  such  a  joy  when  a  thing  is  beautiful,"  he 
continued.  "  People  are  never  beautiful.  Things 
are  beautiful :  statues  and  paintings.  And  then  trees 
and  clouds !  " 

"  Do  you  paint?" 

"  Sometimes,"  he  confessed,  grudgingly.  "  A  lit- 
tle. But  really  everything  has  been  painted  already; 
and  I  can't  really  say  that  I  paint." 

"  Perhaps  you  write  too?  " 

"  There  has  been  even  more  written  than  painted, 
much  more.  Perhaps  everything  has  not  yet  been 


THE  INEVITABLE  31 

painted,  but  everything  has  certainly  been  written. 
Every  new  book  that  is  not  of  absolute  scientific  im- 
portance is  superfluous.  All  the  poetry  has  been 
written  and  every  novel  too." 

"  Do  you  read  much?  " 

"  Hardly  at  all.  I  sometimes  dip  into  an  old  au- 
thor." 

"  But  what  do  you  do  then?  "  she  asked,  suddenly, 
querulously. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered,  calmly,  with  a  glance  of 
humility.  "  I  do  nothing,  I  exist." 

"  Do  you  think  that  a  good  mode  of  existence?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  adopt  another?  " 

"  As  I  might  buy  a  new  coat  or  a  new  bicycle?  " 

"  You're  not  speaking  seriously,"  she  said, 
crossly. 

"  Why  are  you  so  vexed  with  me?  " 

"  Because  you  annoy  me,"  she  said,  irritably. 

He  rose,  bowed  civilly  and  said: 

"  Then  I  had  better  go  for  a  turn  on  my  bicycle." 

And  he  walked  slowly  away. 

;'  What  a  stupid  fellow!  "  she  thought,  peevishly. 

But  she  thought  it  tiresome  that  she  had  wrangled 
with  him,  because  of  his  mother  and  his  sisters. 


CHAPTER  VII 

At  the  hotel,  however,  he  spoke  to  Cornelie  po- 
litely, as  though  there  had  been  no  embarrassment, 
no  wrangling  interchange  of  words  between  them, 
and  he  even  asked  her  quite  simply  —  because  his 
mother  and  sisters  had  some  calls  to  pay  that  after- 
noon —  whether  they  should  go  to  the  Palatine  to- 
gether. 

"  I  passed  it  the  other  day,"  she  said,  indifferently. 

"  And  don't  you  intend  to  see  the  ruins?  " 

"No." 

"Why  not?  "^ 

"  They  don't  interest  me.  I  can't  see  the  past 
in  them.  I  merely  see  ruins." 

"But  then  why  did  you  come  to  Rome?"  he 
asked,  irritably. 

She  looked  at  him  and  could  have  burst  into  sobs : 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  meekly.  "  I  could  just 
as  well  have  gone  somewhere  else.  But  I  had 
formed  a  great  idea  of  Rome ;  and  Rome  disappoints 
me." 

"How  so?" 

"  I  find  it  hard  and  inexorable  and  devoid  of  feel- 
ing. I  don't  know  why,  but  that's  the  impression 
it  makes  upon  me.  And  I  am  in  a  mood  at  present 
which  somehow  makes  me  want  something  less  in- 
sensible and  imperturbable." 

He  smiled: 

"  Come  along,"  he  said.  "  Come  with  me  to  the 
Palatine.  I  must  show  you  Rome.  It  is  so  beau- 
tiful." 

She  felt  too  much  depressed  to  remain  alone ;  and 

32 


THE  INEVITABLE  33 

so  she  put  on  her  things  and  left  the  hotel  with  him. 
The  cabmen  outside  cracked  their  whips: 

"Vole?     Fole?}>  they  shouted. 

He  picked  out  one: 

"  This  is  Gaetano,"  he  said.  "  I  always  take  him. 
He  knows  me,  don't  you,  Gaetano?  " 

"  Si,  signorino.  Cavallo  di  sangue,  signorina!  " 
said  Gaetano,  pointing  to  his  horse. 

They  drove  away. 

"  I  am  always  frightened  of  these  cabmen,"  said 
Cornelie. 

"  You  don't  know  them,"  he  answered,  smiling. 
"  I  like  them.  I  like  the  people.  They're  nice 
people." 

"  You  approve  of  everything  in  Rome." 

"  And  you  submit  without  reserve  to  a  mistaken 
impression." 

'Why  mistaken?" 

"  Because  that  first  impression  of  Rome,  as  hard 
and  unfeeling,  is  always  the  same  and  always  mis- 
taken." 

"  Yes,  it's  that.  Look,  we  are  driving  by  the 
Forum.  Whenever  I  see  the  Forum,  I  think  of 
Miss  Hope  and  her  orange  lining." 

He  felt  annoyed  and  did  not  answer. 
'  This  is  the  Palatine." 

They  alighted  and  passed  through  the  entrance. 
'  This  wooden  staircase  takes  us  to  the  Palace  of 
Tiberius.     Above   the   palace,   on   the   top   of  the 
arches,  is  a  garden  from  which  we  look  down  on  the 
Forum." 

"  Tell  me  about  Tiberius.  I  know  that  there 
were  good  and  bad  emperors.  We  were  taught  that 
at  school.  Tiberius  was-  a  bad  emperor,  wasn't 
he?" 

"  He  was  a  dismal  brute.  But  why  do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  about  him?  " 


34  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  Because  otherwise  I  can  take  no  interest  in  those 
arches  and  chambers." 

"  Then  let  us  go  up  to  the  top  and  sit  in  the 
garden." 

They  did  so. 

"  Don't  you  feel  Rome  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  feel  the  same  everywhere,"  she  replied. 

But  he  seemed  not  to  hear  her: 

"  It's  the  atmosphere  around  you,"  he  continued. 
4  You  should  try  to  forget  our  hotel,  to  forget  Bel- 
loni  and  all  our  fellow-visitors  and  yourself.  When 
anybody  first  arrives  here,  he  has  all  the  usual  trou- 
ble about  the  hotel,  his  rooms,  the  table-d'hote,  the 
vaguely  likable  or  dislikable  people.  You've  got 
over  that  now.  Clear  your  mind  of  it.  And  try  to 
feel  only  the  atmosphere  of  Rome.  It's  as  if  the  at- 
mosphere had  remained  the  same,  notwithstanding 
that  the  centuries  lie  piled  up  one  above  the  other. 
First  the  middle  ages  covered  the  antiquity  of  the 
Forum  and  now  it  is  hidden  everywhere  by  our  nine- 
teenth-century craze  for  travel.  There  you  have 
Miss  Hope's  orange  lining.  But  the  atmosphere 
has  always  remained  the  same.  Unless  I  imagine 
it.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  he  continued.  "  But  what  does 
that  matter  to  me?  Our  whole  life  is  imagination; 
and  imagination  is  a  beautiful  thing.  The  beauty 
of  our  imagination  is  the  consolation  of  our  lives, 
to  those  of  us  who  are  not  men  of  action.  The  past 
is  beauty.  The  present  is  not,  does  not  exist.  And 
the  future  does  not  interest  me." 

"  Do  you  never  think  about  modern  problems?  " 
she  asked. 

'  The  woman  question?     Socialism?     Peace?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  for  instance." 


THE  INEVITABLE  35 

"  No,"  he  smiled.  "  I  think  of  them  sometimes, 
but  not  about  them." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  get  no  further.  That  is  my  nature.  I  am  a 
dreamer  by  nature;  and  my  dream  is  the  past." 

"  Don't  you  dream  of  yourself?  " 

"  No.  Of  my  soul,  my  inner  self?  No.  It  in- 
terests me  very  little." 

"  Have  you  ever  suffered?  " 

"Suffered?  Yes,  no.  I  don't  know.  I  feel 
sorry  for  my  utter  uselessness  as  a  human  being,  as 
a  son,  as  a  man;  but,  when  I  dream,  I  am  happy." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  speak  to  me  so  openly?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise: 

"Why  should  I  be  reticent  about  myself?"  he 
asked.  "  I  either  don't  talk  or  I  talk  as  I  am  doing 
now.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  odd." 

"  Do  you  talk  to  every  one  so  intimately?  " 

"  No,  hardly  to  anybody.  I  once  had  a  friend 
.  .  .  but  he's  dead.  Tell  me,  I  suppose  you  con- 
sider me  morbid?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  if  you  did.     Oh,  how  beauti- 
ful it  is  here  !     Are  you  drinking  Rome  in  with  your 
very  breath?  " 
'Which  Rome?" 

'  The  Rome  of  antiquity.  Under  where  we  are 
sitting  is  the  Palace  of  Tiberius.  I  see  him  walking 
about  there,  with  his  tall,  strong  figure,  with  his 
large,  searching  eyes:  he  was  very  strong,  he  was 
very  dismal  and  he  was  a  brute.  He  had  no  ideals. 
Farther  down,  over  there,  is  the  Palace  of  Caligula, 
a  madman  of  genius.  He  built  a  bridge  across  the 
Forum  to  speak  to  Jupiter  in  the  Capitol.  That's 
a  thing  one  couldn't  do  nowadays.  He  was  a  genius 
and  a  madman.  When  a  man's  like  that,  there's 
a  good  deal  about  him  to  admire." 


3  6  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  How  can  you  admire  an  age  of  emperors  who 
were  brutes  and  mad?  " 

"  Because  I  see  their  age  before  my  eyes,  in  the 
past,  like  a  dream." 

"  How  is  it  possible  that  you  don't  see  the  present 
before  you,  with  the  problems  of  our  own  time,  espe- 
cially the  eternal  problem  of  poverty?  " 

He  looked  at  her: 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know.  That  is  my  sin,  my 
wickedness.  The  eternal  problem  of  poverty  doesn't 
affect  me." 

She  looked  at  him  contemptuously : 

'  You  don't  belong  to  your  period,"  she  said, 
coldly. 

11  No." 

"  Have  you  ever  felt  hungry?  " 

He  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Have  you  ever  pictured  yourself  leading  the  life 
of  a  labourer,  of  a  factory-girl  who  works  until  she's 
worn  out  and  old  and  half-dead  for  a  bare  crust  of 
bread?" 

"Oh,  those  things  are  so  horrible  and  so  ugly: 
don't  talk  about  them !  "  he  entreated. 

The  expression  of  her  eyes  was  cold;  the  corners 
of  her  lips  were  depressed  as  though  by  a  feeling 
of  distaste;  and  she  rose  from  her  seat. 

"  Are  you  angry?  "  he  asked,  humbly. 

"  No,"  she  said,  gently,  "  I  am  not  angry." 

"  But  you  despise  me,  because  you  consider  me  a 
useless  creature,  an  aesthete  and  a  dreamer?  " 

"  No.  What  am  I  myself,  that  I  should  reproach 
you  with  your  uselessness?  " 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  only  find  something!  "  he  ex- 
claimed, almost  in  ecstasy. 

"What?" 

"  An  aim.  But  mine  would  always  remain  beauty. 
And  the  past." 


THE  INEVITABLE  37 

11  And,  if  7  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  devote  my- 
self to  an  aim,  it  would  above  all  be  this :  bread  for 
the  future." 

"  How  abominable  that  sounds !  "  he  said,  rudely 
but  sincerely.  "  Why  didn't  you  go  to  London,  or 
'Manchester,  or  one  of  those  black  manufacturing 
towns?  " 

"  Because  I  hadn't  the  strength  of  mind  and  be- 
cause I  think  too  much  of  myself  and  of  a  sorrow 
that  I  have  had  lately.  And  I  expected  to  find  dis- 
traction in  Italy." 

"  And  that  is  where  your  disappointment  lies. 
But  perhaps  you  will  gradually  acquire  greater 
strength  and  then  devote  yourself  to  your  aim: 
bread  for  the  future.  I  sha'n't  envy  you,  however: 
bread  for  the  Future!  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent. 

Then  she  said,  coldly: 

"  It  is  getting  late.     Let  us  go  home.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Duco  van  der  Staal  had  taken  a  large,  vault-like 
studio,  with  a  chilly  north  light,  up  three  flights  of 
stairs  in  the  Via  del  Babuino.  Here  he  painted, 
modelled  and  studied  and  here  he  dragged  all  the 
beautiful  and  antique  objects  that  he  succeeded  in 
picking  up  in  the  little  shops  along  the  Tiber  or  in 
the  Mercato  dei  Fiori.  That  was  his  passion:  to 
hunt  through  Rome  for  a  panel  of  an  old  triptych 
or  a  fragment  of  ancient  sculpture.  In  this  way  his 
studio  had  not  remained  the  large,  chilly,  vault-like 
workroom  bearing  witness  to  zealous  and  serious 
study,  but  had  become  a  refuge  for  dim-coloured 
remnants  of  antiquity  and  ancient  art,  a  museum  for 
his  dreaming  spirit.  Already  as  a  child,  as  a  boy, 
he  had  felt  that  passion  for  antiquity  developing; 
he  learnt  how  to  rummage  through  the  stocks  of  old 
Jewish  dealers;  he  taught  himself  to  haggle  when 
his  purse  was  not  full ;  and  he  collected  first  rubbish 
and  afterwards,  gradually,  objects  of  artistic  and 
financial  value.  And  it  was  his  great  hobby,  his  one 
vice :  he  spent  all  his  pocket-money  on  it  and,  later, 
without  reserve,  the  little  that  he  was  able  to  earn. 
For  sometimes,  very  seldom,  he  would  finish  some- 
thing and  sell  it.  But  generally  he  was  too  ill-satis- 
fied with  himself  to  finish  anything;  and  his  modest 
notion  was  that  everything  had  already  been  created 
and  that  his  art  was  useless. 

This  idea  sometimes  paralysed  him  for  months 
together,  without  making  him  unhappy.  When  he 
had  the  money  to  keep  himself  going  —  and  his 
personal  needs  were  very  small  —  he  felt  rich  and 

38 


THE  INEVITABLE  39 

was  content  in  his  studio  or  would  wander,  perfectly 
content,  through  the  streets  of  Rome.  His  long, 
careless,  lean,  slender  body  was  at  such  times  clad 
in  his  oldest  suit,  which  afforded  an  unostentatious 
glimpse  of  an  untidy  shirt  with  a  soft  collar  and  a 
bit  of  string  instead  of  a  tie;  and  his  favourite  head- 
gear was  a  faded  hat,  battered  out  of  shape  by  the 
rain.  His  mother  and  sisters  as  a  rule  found  him 
unpresentable,  but  had  given  up  trying  to  transform 
him  into  the  well-groomed  son  and  brother  whom 
they  would  have  liked  to  take  to  the  drawing-rooms 
of  their  Roman  friends.  Happy  to  breathe  the  at- 
mosphere of  Rome,  he  would  wander  for  hours 
through  the  ruins  and  see,  in  a  dazzling  vision  of 
phantom  columns,  ethereal  temples  and  translucent 
marble  palaces  looming  up  in  a  shimmering  sunlit 
twilight;  and  the  tourists  going  by  with  their  Bae- 
dekers, who  passed  this  long  lean  young  man  seated 
carelessly  on  the  foundations  of  the  Temple  of  Sa- 
turn, would  never  have  believed  in  his  architectural 
illusions  of  harmonious  ascending  lines,  crowned  by 
an  array  of  statues  in  noble  and  god-like  attitudes, 
high  in  the  blue  sky. 

But  he  saw  them  before  him.  He  raised  the 
shafts  of  the  pillars,  he  fluted  the  severe  Doric  col- 
umns, he  bent  and  curved  the  cushioned  Ionic  capi- 
tals and  unfurled  the  leaves  of  the  Corinthian  acan- 
thuses; the  temples  rose  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
the  basilicas  shot  up  as  by  magic,  the  graven  images 
stood  white  against  the  elusive  depths  of  the  sky 
and  the  Via  Sacra  became  alive.  He,  in  his  admi- 
ration, lived  his  dream,  his  past.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  known  preexistence  in  ancient  Rome ;  and  the 
modern  houses,  the  modern  Capitol  and  all  that 
stood  aroiuid  the  tomb  of  his  Forum  were  invisible 
to  his  eyes. 

He  would  sit  like  this  for  hours,  or  wander  about 


40  THE  INEVITABLE 

and  sit  down  again  and  be  happy.  In  the  intensity 
of  his  imagination,  he  conjured  up  history  from  the 
clouds  of  the  past,  first  of  all  as  a  mist,  a  miraculous 
haze,  whence  the  figures  stepped  out  against  the 
marble  background  of  ancient  Rome.  The  gigantic 
dramas  were  enacted  before  his  dreaming  eyes  as  on 
an  ideal  stage  which  stretched  from  the  Forum  to 
the  hazy,  sun-shot  azure  of  the  Campagna,  with  slips 
that  lost  themselves  in  the  depths  of  the  sky.  Ro- 
man life  came  into  being,  with  a  toga'd  gesture,  a 
line  of  Horace,  a  sudden  vision  of  an  emperor's  mur- 
der or  a  contest  of  gladiators  in  the  arena.  And 
suddenly  also  the  vision  paled  and  he  saw  the  ruins, 
the  ruins  only,  as  the  tangible  shadow  of  his  unreal 
illusion:  he  saw  the  ruins  as  they  were,  brown  and 
grey,  eaten  up  with  age,  crumbled,  martyred,  mu- 
tilated with  hammers,  till  only  a  few  occasional  pil- 
lars lifted  and  bore  a  trembling  architrave,  that 
threatened  to  come  crashing  to  the  ground.  And 
the  browns  and  greys  were  so  richly  and  nobly  gilded 
by  splashes  of  sunlight,  the  ruins  were  so  exqui- 
sitely beautiful  in  decay,  so  melancholy  in  their  un- 
witting fortuitousness  of  broken  lines,  of  shattered 
arches  and  mutilated  sculpture,  that  it  was  as  though 
he  himself,  after  his  airy  vision  of  radiant  dream- 
architecture,  had  tortured  and  mutilated  them  with 
an  artist's  hand  and  caused  them  to  burst  asunder 
and  shake  and  tremble,  for  the  sake  of  their  wistful 
aftermath  of  beauty.  Then  his  eyes  grew  moist, 
his  heart  became  more  full  than  he  could  bear  and 
he  went  away,  through  the  Arch  of  Titus  by  the 
Colosseum,  through  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  on 
and  on,  and  hurried  past  the  Lateran  to  the  Via 
Appia  and  the  Campagna,  where  his  smarting  eyes 
drank  in  the  blue  of  the  distant  Alban  Hills,  as 
though  that  would  cure  them  of  their  excessive  ga- 
zing and  dreaming.  .  .  . 


THE  INEVITABLE  41 

Neither  in  his  mother  nor  in  his  sisters  did  he  find 
a  strain  that  sympathized  with  his  eccentric  tenden- 
cies; and,  since  that  one  friend  who  died,  he  had 
never  found  another  and  had  always  been  lonely 
within  and  without,  as  though  the  victim  of  a  predes- 
tination which  would  not  allow  him  to  meet  with 
sympathy.  But  he  had  peopled  his  loneliness  so 
densely  with  his  dreams  that  he  had  never  felt  un- 
happy because  of  it;  and,  even  as  he  loved  roam- 
ing alone  among  the  ruins  and  along  the  country- 
roads,  so  he  cherished  the  privacy  of  his  lonely  stu- 
dio, with  the  many  silent  figures  on  an  old  panel  of 
some  triptych,  on  a  tapestry,  or  on  the  many  closely 
hung  sketches,  all  around  him,  all  with  the  charm  of 
their  lines  and  colours,  all  with  the  silent  gesture  of 
their  movement  and  emotion  and  all  blending  to- 
gether in  twilit  corners  or  a  shadowy  antique  cabinet. 
And  in  between  all  this  lived  his  china  and  bronze 
and  old  silver,  while  the  faded  gold  embroidery  of 
an  ecclesiastical  vestment  gleamed  faintly  and  the 
old  leather  bindings  of  his  books  stood  in  comfort- 
able brown  rows,  ready  to  give  forth,  when  his 
hands  opened  them,  images  which  mistily  drifted  up- 
wards, living  their  loves  and  their  sorrows  in  the 
tempered  browns  and  reds  and  golds  of  the  sound- 
less atmosphere  of  the  studio. 

Such  was  his  simple  life,  without  much  inward 
doubting,  because  he  made  no  great  demands  upon 
himself,  and  without  the  modern  artist's  melancholy, 
because  he  was  happy  in  his  dreams.  He  had  never, 
despite  his  hotel  life  with  his  mother  and  sisters  — 
he  slept  and  took  his  meals  at  Belloni's  —  met  many 
people  or  concerned  himself  with  strangers,  being 
by  nature  a  little  shy  of  Baedekered  tourists,  of 
short-skirted  English  ladies,  with  their  persistent 
little  exclamations  of  uniform  admiration,  and  feel- 
ing entirely  impossible  in  the  half-Italian,  half- 


42  THE  INEVITABLE 

cosmopolitan  set  of  his  rather  worldly  mother  and 
smart  little  sisters,  who  spent  their  time  dancing  and 
cycling  with  young  Italian  princes  and  dukes. 

And,  now  that  he  had  met  Cornelie  de  Retz,  he 
had  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  possessed  but  little 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  that  he  had  never 
learnt  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  such  a  woman,  who 
might  have  existed  in  books,  but  not  in  actual  life. 
Her  very  appearance  —  her  pallor,  her  drooping 
charm,  her  weariness  —  had  astonished  him;  and 
her  conversation  astonished  him  even  more :  her 
positiveness  mingled  with  hesitation;  her  artistic 
feeling  modified  by  the  endeavour  to  take  part  in 
her  period,  a  period  which  he  failed  to  appreciate  as 
artistic,  enamoured  as  he  was  of  Rome  and  of  the 
past.  And  her  conversation  astonished  him,  attract- 
ive though  the  sound  of  it  was  and  offended  as  he 
often  was  by  a  recurrent  bitterness  and  irony,  fol- 
lowed again  by  depression  and  discouragement,  until 
he  thought  it  over  again  and  again,  until  in  his  mu- 
sing he  seemed  to  hear  it  once  more  on  her  own  lips, 
until  she  joined  the  busts  and  torsos  in  his  studio 
and  appeared  before  him  in  the  lily-like  frailness  of 
her  visible  actuality,  against  the  preraphaelite  stiff- 
ness of  line  and  the  Byzantine  gold  and  colour  of  the 
angels  and  madonnas  on  canvas  and  tapestry. 

His  soul  had  never  known  love ;  and  he  had  always 
looked  on  love  as  imagination  and  poetry.  His  life 
had  never  known  more  than  the  natural  virile  im- 
pulse and  the  ordinary  little  love-affair  with  a  model. 
And  his  ideas  on  love  swayed  in  a  too  wide  and 
unreal  balance  between  a  woman  who  showed  herself 
in  the  nude  for  a  few  lire  and  Petrarch's  Laura;  be- 
tween the  desire  roused  by  a  beautiful  body  and  the 
exaltation  inspired  by  Dante's  Beatrice;  between  the 
flesh  and  the  dream.  He  had  never  contemplated 
an  encounter  of  kindred  souls,  never  longed  for 


THE  INEVITABLE  43 

sympathy,  for  love  in  the  full  and  pregnant  sense 
of  the  word.  And,  when  he  began  to  think  and  to 
think  long  and  often  of  Cornelie  de  Retz,  he  could 
not  understand  it.  He  had  pondered  and  dreamed 
for  days,  for  a  week  about  a  woman  in  a  poem;  on  a 
woman  in  real  life  never. 

And  that  he,  irritated  by  some  of  her  sayings, 
had  nevertheless  seen  her  stand  with  her  lily-like 
outline  against  his  Byzantine  triptych,  like  a  wraith 
in  his  lonely  dreams,  almost  frightened  him,  because 
it  had  made  him  lose  his  peace  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  IX 

It  was  Christmas  Day,  on  which  occasion  the 
Marchesa  Belloni  entertained  her  boarders  with  a 
Christmas-tree  in  the  drawing-room,  followed  by  a 
dance  in  the  old  Guercino  dining-room.  To  give  a 
ball  and  a  Christmas-tree  was  a  custom  with  many 
hotel-keepers;  and  the  pensions  that  gave  no  dance 
or  Christmas-tree  were  known  and  numbered  and 
were  greatly  blamed  by  the  foreigners  for  this 
breach  of  tradition.  There  were  instances  of  very 
excellent  pensions  to  which  many  travellers,  espe- 
cially ladies,  never  went,  because  there  was  neither  a 
dance  nor  a  Christmas-tree  at  Christmas. 

The  marchesa  realized  that  her  tree  was  ex- 
pensive and  that  her  dance  cost  money  too  and  she 
would  gladly  have  found  an  excuse  for  avoiding 
both,  but  she  dared  not:  the  reputation  of  her 
pension,  as  it  happened,  depended  on  its  worldliness 
and  smartness,  on  the  table-d'hote  in  the  handsome 
dining-room,  where  people  dressed  for  dinner,  and 
also  on  the  brilliant  party  given  at  Christmas.  And 
it  was  amusing  to  see  how  keen  all  the  ladies  were  to 
receive  gratis  in  their  bill  for  a  whole  winter's  stay 
a  trashy  Christmas  present  and  the  opportunity  of 
dancing  without  having  to  pay  for  a  glass  of  orgeade 
and  a  bit  of  pastry,  a  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  soup. 
Giuseppe,  the  old  nodding  major-domo,  looked 
down  contemptuously  on  this  festivity:  he  remem- 
bered the  gala  pomp  of  his  archducal  evenings  and 
considered  the  dance  inferior  and  the  tree  paltry. 
Antonio,  the  limping  porter,  accustomed  to  his  com- 
paratively quiet  life  —  fetching  a  visitor  or  taking 
him  to  the  station;  sorting  the  post  twice  a  day  at 

44 


THE  INEVITABLE  45 

his  ease ;  and  for  the  rest  pottering  around  his  lodge 
and  the  lift  —  hated  the  dance,  because  of  all  the 
guests  of  the  boarders,  each  of  whom  was  entitled 
toJnvite  two  or  three  friends,  and  because  of  all  that 
tiring  fuss  about  carriages,  when  a  good  many  of  the 
visitors  skipped  into  their  vettura  without  tipping 
him.  Round  about  Christmas,  therefore,  relations 
between  the  marchesa  and  her  two  principal  dig- 
nitaries became  far  from  harmonious;  and  a  hail 
of  orders  and  abuse  would  patter  down  on  the  backs 
of  the  old  cameriere,  crawling  wearily  up  and 
downstairs  with  their  hot-water-cans  in  their  trem- 
bling hands,  and  of  the  young  greenhorns  of  waiters, 
colliding  with  one  another  in  their  undisciplined  zeal 
and  smashing  the  plates.  And  it  was  only  now, 
when  the  whole  staff  was  put  to  work  that  people 
saw  how  old  the  cameriere  were  and  how  young  the 
waiters  and  qualified  as  disgraceful  and  shocking  the 
thrifty  method  of  the  marchesa  in  employing  none 
but  wrecks  and  infants  in  her  service.  The  one 
muscular  facchino,  who  was  essential  for  hauling  the 
luggage,  cut  an  unexpected  figure  of  virile  maturity 
and  robustness.  But  above  everything  the  visitors 
detested  the  marchesa  because  of  the  great  number 
of  her  servants,  reflecting  that  now,  at  Christmas- 
time, they  would  have  to  tip  every  one  of  them.  No, 
they  never  imagined  that  the  staff  was  so  large ! 
Quite  unnecessarily  large  too !  Why  couldn't  the 
marchesa  engage  a  couple  of  strong  young  maids 
and  waiters  instead  of  all  those  old  women  and  little 
boys?  And  there  was  much  hushed  plotting  and 
confabulating  in  the  corners  of  the  passages  and  at 
meals,  to  decide  on  the  tips  to  be  given:  they  didn't 
want  to  spoil  the  servants,  but  still  they  were  stay- 
ing all  the  winter;  and  therefore  one  lira  was  hardly 
enough  and  they  hesitated  between  one  lira  twenty- 
five  and  one  lira  fifty.  But,  when  they  counted  on 


46  THE  INEVITABLE 

their  fingers  that  there  were  fully  five-and-twenty 
servants  and  that  therefore  they  were  close  on  forty 
lire  out  of  pocket,  they  thought  it  an  awful  lot  and 
they  got  up  subscription-lists.  Two  lists  went 
round,  one  of  one  lira  and  one  of  twelve  lire  a  vis- 
itor, the  latter  subscription  covering  the  whole  staff. 
On  this  second  list  some,  who  had  arrived  a  month 
before  and  who  had  arranged  to  leave,  entered  their 
names  for  ten  lire  and  some  for  six  lire.  Five  lire 
was  by  general  consent  considered  too  little;  and, 
when  it  became  known  that  the  grimy  aesthetic  la- 
dies intended  to  give  five  lire,  they  were  regarded 
with  the  greatest  contempt. 

It  all  meant  a  lot  of  trouble  and  excitement.  As 
Christmas  drew  nearer,  people  streamed  to  the 
presepii  set  up  by  painters  in  the  Palazzo  Borghese : 
a  panorama  of  Jerusalem  and  the  shepherds,  the 
angels,  the  Magi  and  Mary  and  the  Child  in  the 
manger  with  the  ox  and  the  ass.  They  listened  in 
the  Ara  Coeli  to  the  preaching  of  little  boys  and 
girls,  who  by  turns  climbed  the  platform  and  told 
the  story  of  the  Nativity,  some  shyly  reciting  a  little 
poem,  prompted  by  an  anxious  mother ;  others,  girls 
especially,  declaiming  and  rolling  their  eyes  with  the 
dramatic  fervour  of  little  Italian  actresses  and  end- 
ing up  with  a  religious  moral.  The  people  and 
countless  tourists  stood  and  listened  to  the  preach- 
ing; a  pleasant  spirit  prevailed  in  the  church,  where 
the  shrill  young  children's  voices  were  lifted  up  in 
oratory;  there  was  laughter  at  a  gesture  or  a  point 
driven  home;  and  the  priests  strolling  round  the 
church  wore  an  unctuous  smile  because  it  was  all  so 
pretty  and  so  satisfactory.  And  in  the  chapel  of 
the  Santo  Bambino  the  miraculous  wooden  doll  was 
bright  with  gold  and  jewels;  and  the  close-packed 
multitude  thronged  to  gaze  at  it. 

All  the  visitors  at  Belloni's  bought  bunches  of 


THE  INEVITABLE  47 

holly  in  the  Piazza,  di  Spagna  to  adorn  their  rooms 
with;  and  some,  such  as  the  Baronin  van  Rothkirch, 
set  up  a  private  Christmas-tree  in  their  own  rooms. 
On  the  evening  before  the  great  party  one  and  all 
went  to  admire  these  private  trees,  going  in  and  out 
of  one  another's  rooms;  and  all  the  boarders  wore  a 
kind,  festive  smile  and  welcomed  everybody,  how- 
ever much  at  other  times  they  might  quarrel  and 
intrigue  against  one  another.  It  was  universally 
agreed  that  the  Baronin  had  taken  great  pains  and 
that  her  tree  was  magnificent.  Her  bedroom  had 
been  cleverly  metamorphosed  into  a  boudoir,  the 
beds  draped  to  look  like  divans,  the  wash-hand- 
stands concealed;  and  the  tree  was  radiant  with 
candles  and  tinsel.  And  the  Baronin,  a  little  sen- 
timentally inclined,  for  the  season  reminded  her  of 
Berlin  and  her  lost  domesticity,  opened  her  doors 
wide  to  everybody  and  was  even  offering  the  two 
aesthetic  ladies  sweets,  when  the  marchesa,  also 
smiling,  appeared  at  the  door,  with  her  bosom 
moulded  in  sky-blue  satin  and  with  even  larger 
crystals  than  usual  in  her  ears.  The  room  was  full : 
there  were  the  Van  der  Staals,  Cornelie,  Rudyard, 
Urania  Hope  and  other  guests  going  in  and  out,  so 
that  it  became  impossible  to  move  and  they  stood 
packed  together  or  sat  on  the  draped  beds  of  the 
mother  and  daughter.  The  marchesa  led  in  beside 
her  an  unknown  young  man,  short,  slender,  with  a 
pale  olive  complexion  and  with  dark,  bright,  witty, 
lively  eyes.  He  wore  dress-clothes  and  displayed 
the  vague  good  manners  of  a  beloved  and  careless 
viveur,  distinguished  and  yet  conceited.  And  she 
proudly  went  up  to  the  Baronin,  who  kept  prettily 
wiping  her  moist  eyes,  and  with  a  certain  arrogance 
presented: 

"  My  nephew,  Duca  di  San  Stefano,  Principe  di 
Forte-Braccio.         ." 


48  THE  INEVITABLE 

The  well-known  Italian  name  sounded  from  her 
lips  in  the  small,  crowded  room  with  deliberate  dis- 
tinctness; and  all  eyes  went  to  the  young  man,  who 
bowed  low  before  the  Baronin  and  then  looked 
round  the  room  with  a  vague,  ironical  glance.  The 
marchesa's  nephew  had  not  yet  been  seen  at  the 
hotel  that  winter,  but  everybody  knew  that  the 
young  Duke  of  San  Stefano,  Prince  of  Forte-Braccio, 
was  a  nephew  of  the  marchesa's  and  one  of  the 
advertisements  for  her  pension.  And,  while  the 
prince  talked  to  the  Baronin  and  her  daughter, 
Urania  Hope  stared  at  him  as  a  miraculous  being 
from  another  world.  She  clung  tight  to  Cornelie's 
arm,  as  though  she  were  in, danger  of  fainting  at 
the  sight  of  so  much  Italian  nobility  and  greatness. 
She  thought  him  very  good-looking,  very  imposing, 
short  and  slender  and  pale,  with  his  carbuncle  eyes 
and  his  weary  distinction  and  the  white  orchid  in 
his  button-hole.  She  would  have  loved  to  ask  the 
marchioness  to  introduce  her  to  her  chic  nephew,  but 
she  dared  not,  for  she  thought  of  her  father's  stock- 
inet-factory at  Chicago. 

The  Christmas-tree  party  and  the  dance  took 
place  the  following  night.  It  became  known  that 
the  marchesa's  nephew  was  coming  that  evening 
too;  and  a  great  excitement  reigned  throughout  the 
day.  The  prince  arrived  after  the  presents  had 
been  taken  down  from  the  tree  and  distributed  and 
made  a  sort  of  state  entry  by  the  side  of  his  aunt,  the 
marchesa,  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  dancing 
had  not  yet  begun,  though  the  guests  were  sitting 
about  the  room,  all  fixing  their  eyes  on  the  ducal  and 
princely  apparition. 

Cornelie  was  strolling  with  Duco  van  der  Staal, 
who  to  his  mother's  and  sisters'  great  surprise  had 
fished  out  his  dress-clothes  and  appeared  in  the  big 
hall;  and  they  both  observed  the  triumphant  entry 


THE  INEVITABLE  49 

of  la  Belloni  and  her  nephew  and  laughed  at  the 
fanatically  upturned  eyes  of  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can ladies.  They,  Cornelie  and  Duco,  sat  down  in 
the  hall  on  two  chairs,  in  front  of  a  clump  of  palms, 
which  concealed  one  of  the  doors  of  the  drawing- 
room,  while  the  dance  began  inside.  They  were 
talking  about  the  statues  in  the  Vatican,  which  they 
had  been  to  see  two  days  before,  when  they  heard, 
as  though  close  to  their  ears,  a  voice  which  they 
recognized  as  the  marchesa's  commanding  organ, 
vainly  striving  to  sink  into  a  whisper.  They  looked 
round  in  surprise  and  perceived  the  hidden  door, 
which  was  partly  open,  and  through  the  open  space 
they  faintly  distinguished  the  slim  hand  and  black 
sleeve  of  the  prince  and  a  piece  of  the  blue  bosom 
of  la  Belloni,  both  seated  on  a  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room.  They  were  therefore  back  to  back,  separa- 
ted by  the  half-open  door.  They  listened  for  fun  to 
the  marchesa's  Italian;  the  prince's  answers  were 
lisped  so  softly  that  they  could  scarcely  catch  them. 
And  of  what  the  marchesa  said  they  heard  only  a 
few  words  and  scraps  of  sentences.  They  were 
listening  quite  involuntarily,  when  they  heard 
Rudyard's  name  clearly  pronounced  by  the  marchesa. 

"  And  who  besides?  "  asked  the  prince,  softly. 

"  An  English  miss,"  said  the  marchesa.  "  Miss 
Taylor:  she's  sitting  over  there,  by  herself  in  the 
corner.  A  simple  little  soul.  .  .  .  The  Baronin 
and  her  daughter.  .  .  .  The  Dutchwoman:  a  di- 
vorcee. .  .  .  And  the  pretty  American." 

"And  those  two  very  attractive  Dutch  girls?" 
asked  the  prince. 

The  music  boom-boomed  louder;  and  Cornelie 
and  Duco  did  not  catch  the  reply. 

"And  the  divorced  Dutchwoman?"  the  prince 
asked  next. 

"  No  money,"  the  marchesa  answered,  curtly. 


50  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  And  the  young  baroness?  " 

"  No  money,"  la  Belloni  repeated. 

"  So  there's  no  one  except  the  stocking-mer- 
chant?" asked  the  prince,  wearily. 

La  Belloni  became  cross,  but  Cornelie  and  Duco 
could  not  understand  the  sentences  which  she  rat- 
tled out  through  the  boom-booming  music.  Then, 
during  a  lull,  they  heard  the  marchesa  say : 

"  She  is  very  pretty.  She  has  tons  and  tons  of 
money.  She  could  have  gone  to  a  first-class  hotel 
but  preferred  to  come  here  because,  as  a  young  girl 
travelling  by  herself,  she  was  recommended  to  me 
and  finds  it  pleasanter  here.  She  has  the  big  sitting- 
room  to  herself  and  pays  fifty  lire  a  day  for  her  two 
rooms.  She  does  not  care  about  money.  She  pays 
three  times  as  much  as  the  others  for  her  wood;  and 
I  also  charge  her  for  the  wine." 

"  She  sells  stockings,"  muttered  the  prince,  ob- 
stinately. 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  marchesa.  "Remember 
that  there's  nobody  at  the  moment.  Last  winter  we 
had  rich  English  titled  people,  with  a  daughter,  but 
you  thought  her  too  tall.  You're  always  discover- 
ing some  objection.  You  mustn't  be  so  difficult." 

"  I  think  those  two  little  Dutch  dolls  attractive." 

"  They  have  no  money.  You're  always  thinking 
what  you  have  no  business  to  think." 

"  How  much  did  Papa  promise  you  if  you  .  .  ." 

The  music  boomed  louder. 

".  .  .  makes  no  difference.  ...  If  Rudyard 
talks  to  her.  .  .  .  Miss  Taylor  is  easy.  .  .  .  Miss 
Hope  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  want  so  many  stockings  as  all  that." 

".  .  .  very  witty,  I  dare  say.  ...  If  you  don't 
care  to  .  .  ." 

"  No." 


THE  INEVITABLE  51 

".  .  .  then  I  retire.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  Rudyard  so. 
.  .  .  How  much?  " 

"Sixty  or  seventy  thousand:  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly." 

"Are  they  urgent?" 

"  Debts  are  never  urgent  1  " 

[<  Do  you  agree?  " 

"  Very  well.  But  mind,  I  won't  sell  myself  for 
less  than  ten  millions.  .  .  .  And  then  you  get  .  .  ." 

They  both  laughed;  and  again  the  names  of 
Rudyard  and  Urania  were  pronounced. 

"Urania?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Urania,"  replied  la  Belloni.  "  Those  lit- 
tle Americans  are  very  tactful.  Look  at  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Castellane  and  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough : 
how  well  they  bear  their  husbands'  honours !  They 
cut  an  excellent  figure.  They  are  mentioned  in 
every  society  column  and  always  with  respect." 

".  .  .  All  right  then.  I  am  tired  of  these  wasted 
winters.  But  not  less  than  ten  millions." 

"  Five." 

"  No,  ten." 

The  prince  and  the  marchesa  had  stood  up  to  go. 
.Cornelie  looked  at  Duco.  He  laughed: 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  them,"  he  said.  "  It's 
a  joke,  of  course." 

Cornelie  was  startled : 

"  A  joke,  you  think,  Mr.  van  der  Staal?  " 

"  Yes,  they're  humbugging." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I  do." 

"Have  you  any  knowledge  of  human  nature?" 

"  Oh,  no,  none  at  all ! 

"  I'm  getting  it,  gradually.  I  believe  that  Rome 
can  be  dangerous  and  that  an  hotel-keeping  mar- 
chesa, a  prince  and  a  Jesuit  .  .  ." 


52  THE  INEVITABLE 

"What  about  them?" 

"  Can  be  dangerous,  if  not  to  your  sisters,  because 
they  have  no  money,  but  at  any  rate  to  Urania 
Hope." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  for  a  moment.  It  was  all 
chaff.  And  it  doesn't  interest  me.  What  do  you 
think  of  Praxiteles'  Eros?  I  think  it  the  most  di- 
vine statue  that  I  ever  saw.  Oh,  the  Eros,  the 
Eros!  That  is  love,  the  real  love,  the  predestined, 
fatal  love,  begging  forgiveness  for  the  suffering 
which  it  causes." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  love?  " 

"  No.  I  have  no  knowledge  of  human  nature 
and  I  have  never  been  in  love.  You  are  always  so 
definite.  Dreams  are  beautiful,  statues  are  de- 
lightful and  poetry  is  everything.  The  Eros  ex- 
presses love  completely.  The  love  of  the  Eros  is  so 
beautiful !  I  could  never  love  so  beautifully  as  that. 
.  .  .  No,  it  does  not  interest  me  to  understand 
human  nature;  and  a  dream  of  Praxiteles,  lingering 
in  a  mutilated  marble  torso,  is  nobler  than  anything 
that  the  world  calls  love." 

She  knitted  her  brows;  her  eyes  were  sombre. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  dancers,"  she  said.  "  We  are 
so  out  of  it  all  here." 


CHAPTER  X 

The  day  after  the  dance,  at  table,  Cornelie  re- 
ceived a  strange  impression:  suddenly,  as  she  sipped 
her  delicious  Genzano,  ordered  for  her  by  Rudyard, 
she  became  aware  that  it  was  not  by  accident  that 
she  was  sitting  with  the  Baronin  and  her  daughter, 
with  Urania  and  Miss  Taylor;  she  saw  that  the 
marchesa  had  an  intention  behind  this  arrangement. 
Rudyard,  always  civil,  polite,  thoughtful,  always  full 
of  attentions,  his  pockets  always  filled  with  cards  of 
introduction  very  difficult  to  obtain  —  or  so  at  least 
he  contended  —  talked  without  ceasing,  lately  more 
particularly  to  Miss  Taylor,  who  went  faithfully  to 
hear  all  the  best  church  music  and  always  returned 
home  in  ecstasy.  The  pale,  simple,  thin  little  Eng- 
lishwoman, who  at  first  used  to  go  into  raptures  over 
museums,  ruins  and  the  sunsets  on  the  Aventine  or 
the  Monte  Mario  and  who  was  always  tired  by  her 
rambles  through  Rome,  now  devoted  herself  ex- 
clusively to  the  hundreds  of  churches,  visited  and 
studied  them  all  and  above  all  faithfully  attended 
the  musical  services  and  spoke  ecstatically  of  the 
choir  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  quavering  Glorias 
of  the  male  soprani. 

Cornelie  spoke  to  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  the 
Baronin  von  Rothkirch  of  the  conversation  between 
the  marchesa  and  her  nephew  which  she  had  heard 
through  the  half-open  door;  but  neither  of  them, 
though  interested  and  curious,  took  the  marchesa's 
words  seriously,  regarding  them  only  as  so  much 
thoughtless  talk  between  a  foolish,  match-making 
aunt  and  an  unwilling  nephew.  Cornelie  was  struck 
by  seeing  how  unable  people  are  to  take  things  seri- 

53 


54  THE  INEVITABLE 

ously;  but  the  Baronin  was  quite  indifferent,  saying 
that  Rudyard  could  do  her  no  harm  and  was  still 
supplying  her  with  tickets;  and  Mrs.  van  der  Staal, 
who  had  been  in  Rome  a  long  time  and  was  accus- 
tomed to  little  boarding-house  conspiracies,  con- 
sidered that  Cornelie  was  making  herself  too  uneasy 
about  the  fair  Urania's  fate. 

Suddenly,  however,  Miss  Taylor  disappeared 
from  the  table.  They  thought  that  she  was  ill, 
until  it  came  to  light  that  she  had  left  the  Pension 
Belloni.  Rudyard  said  nothing;  but,  a  few  days 
later,  the  whole  pension  knew  that  Miss  Taylor  had 
been  converted  to  the  Catholic  faith  and  had  moved 
to  a  pension  recommended  by  Rudyard,  a  pension 
frequented  by  monsignori  and  noted  for  its  religious 
tone.  Her  disappearance  produced  a  certain  con- 
straint in  the  conversation  between  Rudyard,  the 
German  ladies  and  Cornelie;  and  the  latter,  in  the 
course  of  a  week  which  the  Baronin  was  spending  at 
Naples,  changed  her  seat  and  joined  her  fellow- 
countrywomen  the  Van  der  Staals.  The  Von  Roth- 
kirches  also  changed,  because  of  the  draught,  said 
the  Baronin;  their  seats  were  taken  by  new  arrivals; 
and  Urania  was  left  alone  with  Rudyard  at  lunch 
and  dinner,  amid  those  foreign  elements. 

Cornelie  reproached  herself  and  one  day  spoke 
seriously  to  the  American  girl  and  warned  her.  But 
she  dared  not  repeat  what  she  had  overheard  at  the 
dance;  and  her  warning  made  no  impression  on 
Urania.  And,  when  Rudyard  had  obtained  for 
Miss  Hope  the  privilege  of  a  private  audience  of  the 
Pope,  Urania  would  not  hear  a  word  against  Rud- 
yard and  considered  him  the  kindest  man  whom  she 
had  ever  met,  Jesuit  or  no  Jesuit. 

But  Rudyard  continued  to  appear  through  a  haze 
of  mystery;  and  people  were  not  agreed  as  to 
whether  he  was  a  priest  or  a  layman. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  What  do  those  strangers  matter  to  you  ?  "  asked 
Duco. 

They  were  sitting  in  his  studio:  Mrs.  van  der 
Staal,  Cornelie  and  the  girls,  Annie  and  Emilie. 
Annie  was  pouring  out  the  tea;  and  they  were  dis- 
cussing Miss  Taylor  and  Urania. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  to  you  too !  "  said  Cornelie. 

"  You  are  not  a  stranger  to  me,  to  us.  But  Miss 
Taylor  and  Urania  don't  matter.  Hundreds  of 
shadows  pass  through  our  lives :  I  don't  see  them  and 
don't  feel  for  them." 

"  And  am  I  not  a  shadow?  " 

"  I  have  talked  to  you  too  much  in  the  Borghese 
and  on  the  Palatine  to  look  upon  you  as  a  shadow." 

:'  Rudyard  is  a  dangerous  shadow,"  said  Annie. 

"  He  has  no  hold  over  us,"  Duco  replied. 

Mrs.  van  der  Staal  looked  at  Cornelie.  She 
understood  the  enquiring  glance  and  said,  laughing: 

"  No,  he  has  no  hold  over  me  either.  Still,  if  I 
felt  the  need  of  a  religion,  I  mean  an  ecclesiastical 
religion,  I  would  rather  be  a  Roman  Catholic  than 
a  Protestant.  But,  as  things  are  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  complete  her  sentence.  She  felt  safe 
in  this  studio,  in  this  soft,  many-coloured  profusion 
of  beautiful  things,  in  the  affection  of  her  friends; 
she  felt  in  harmony  with  them  all :  with  the  worldly 
charm  of  that  somewhat  superficial  mother  and  her 
two  pretty  girls,  a  little  doll-like  and  vaguely  cos- 
mopolitan and  a  trifle  vain  of  the  little  marquises 
with  whom  they  danced  and  bicycled;  and  with  that 
son,  that  brother>  so  very  different  from  the  three 

55 


56  THE  INEVITABLE 

of  them  and  yet  obviously  related  to  them,  as  a 
movement,  a  gesture,  a  single  word  would  show.  It 
also  struck  Cornelie  that  they  accepted  each  other 
affectionately  as  they  were :  Duco,  his  mother  and 
sisters,  with  their  stories  about  the  Princesses  Co- 
lonna  and  Odescalchi;  mevrouw  and  the  girls  and 
him,  with  his  worn  jacket  and  his  unkempt  hair. 
And,  when  he  began  to  speak,  especially  about 
Rome,  when  he  put  his  dream  into  words,  in  almost 
bookish  sentences,  which  however  flowed  easily  and 
naturally  from  his  lips,  Cornelie  felt  in  harmony 
with  her  surroundings,  secure  and  interested  and  to 
some  extent  lost  that  longing  to  contradict  him  which 
his  artistic  indolence  sometimes  aroused  in  her. 
And,  besides,  his  indolence  suddenly  seemed  to  her 
merely  apparent  and  perhaps  an  affection,  for  he 
showed  her  sketches  and  water-colour  drawings,  not 
one  of  them  finished,  but  every  water-colour  alive 
with  light  before  all  things,  alive  with  all  that  light 
of  Italy:  the  pearl  sunsets  over  the  molten  emerald 
of  Venice ;  the  campanili  of  Florence  drawn  vaguely 
and  dreamily  against  tender  tea-rose  skies;  Siena 
fortress-like,  blue-black  in  the  bluish  moonlight;  the 
blazing  sunshine  behind  St.  Peter's;  and,  above  all, 
the  ruins,  in  every  kind  of  light:  the  Forum  in  the 
bright  sunlight,  the  Palatine  by  twilight,  the  Colos- 
seum mysterious  in  the  night;  and  then  the  Cam- 
pagna:  all  the  dream-like  skies  and  luminous  haze 
of  the  glad  and  sad  Campagna,  with  pale-pink 
mauves,  dewy  blues,  dusky  violets  or  the  swaggering 
ochres  of  pyrotechnical  sunsets  and  clouds  flaring 
like  the  crimson  pinions  of  the  phoenix.  And,  when 
Cornelie  asked  him  why  nothing  was  finished  off,  he 
answered  that  nothing  was  right.  He  saw  the  skies 
as  dreams,  visions  and  apotheoses;  and  on  his  paper 
they  became  water  and  paint;  and  paint  was  not  a 
thing  to  be  finished  off.  Besides,  he  lacked  the  self- 


THE  INEVITABLE  57 

confidence.  And  then  he  laid  his  skies  aside,  he  said, 
and  sat  down  to  copy  Byzantine  madonnas. 

When  he  saw  that  his  water-colours  interested  her 
nevertheless,  he  went  on  talking  about  himself:  how 
he  had  at  first  raved  over  the  noble  and  ingenuous 
Primitives,  Giotto  and  especially  Lippo  Memmi; 
how,  after  that,  spending  a  year  in  Paris,  he  had 
found  nothing  that  excelled  Forain :  cold,  dry  satire 
in  two  or  three  lines;  how,  next,  in  the  Louvre, 
Rubens  had  become  revealed  to  him,  Rubens  whose 
own  talent  and  whose  own  brush  he  used  to  trace 
amid  all  the  prentice-work  and  imitations  of  his 
pupils,  until  he  was  able  to  tell  which  cherub  was  by 
Rubens  himself  in  a  sky  full  of  cherubs  painted  by 
four  or  five  disciples. 

And  then,  he  said,  he  would  pass  weeks  without 
giving  a  thought  to  painting  or  taking  up  a  brush 
and  would  go  daily  to  the  Vatican,  lost  in  con- 
templation of  the  magnificent  marbles. 

Once  he  had  sat  dreaming  a  whole  morning  in 
front  of  the  Eros;  once  he  had  dreamt  a  poem  there, 
to  a  very  gentle,  melodious,  monotonous  accompani- 
ment, like  an  inward  incantation.  On  coming  home 
he  had  tried  to  put  both  poem  and  music  on  paper, 
but  he  had  failed.  Now  he  could  no  longer  look  at 
Forain,  thought  Rubens  coarse  and  disgusting,  but 
remained  faithful  to  the  Primitives : 

"  And  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  painted  a  lot 
and  sent  a  lot  of  pictures  to  exhibitions?  Should  I 
be  any  the  happier?  Should  I  feel  satisfied  in  hav- 
ing done  something?  I  doubt  it.  Sometimes  I  do 
finish  a  water-colour  and  sell  it;  and  then  I  can  go 
on  living  for  a  month  without  troubling  Mamma. 
Money  I  don't  care  about.  Ambition  is  quite  for- 
eign to  my  nature.  .  .  .  But  don'i  It  us  talk  about 
myself.  Do  you  still  think  of  the  future  and  .  .  . 
bread?" 


58  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  a  melancholy  laugh, 
while  the  studio  around  her  grew  dusk  and  dim  and 
the  figures  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  sitting  silent, 
languid  and  uninterested  in  their  easy-chairs,  gradu- 
ally faded  away  and  every  colour  slowly  paled. 
"  But  I  am  so  weak-minded.  You  say  that  you  are 
not  an  artist;  and  I  ...  I  am  not  an  apostle." 

"  To  give  one's  life  a  course:  that  is  the  difficulty. 
Every  life  has  a  line,  an  appointed  course,  a  road, 
a  path:  life  has  to  flow  along  that  line  to  death  and 
what  comes  after  death;  and  that  line  is  difficult  to 
find.  I  shall  never  find  my  line." 

"  I  don't  see  my  line  before  me  either." 

"  Do  you  know,  a  restlessness  has  come  over  me. 
Mamma,  listen,  a  restlessness  has  come  over  me.  I 
used  to  dream  in  the  Forum,  I  was  happy  and  didn't 
think  about  my  line,  my  appointed  course.  Mamma, 
do  you  think  about  your  line?  Do  you,  girls?  " 

His  sisters  giggled  in  the  dark,  sunk  in  their  low 
chairs,  like  two  pussy-cats.  Mamma  got  up : 

"  Duco  dear,  you  know  I  can't  follow  you.  I  ad- 
mire Cornelie  for  liking  your  water-colours  and 
understanding  what  you  mean  by  that  line.  My  line 
is  to  go  home  at  once,  for  it's  very  late." 

"  That's  the  line  of  the  next  two  seconds.  But 
there  is  a  restlessness  about  my  line  that  affects  it  for 
days  and  weeks  to  come.  I  am  not  leading  the  right 
life.  The  past  is  very  beautiful  and  so  peaceful,  be- 
cause it  has  been.  But  I  have  lost  that  peace.  The 
present  is  very  small.  But  the  future !  .  .  .  Oh,  if 
we  could  only  find  an  aim  .  .  .  for  the  future !  " 

They  no  longer  listened ;  they  went  down  the  dark 
stairs,  groping  their  way. 

"Bread?"  he  asked  himself,  wonderingly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

One  morning  when  Cornelia  stayed  indoors  she 
went  through  the  books  that  lay  scattered  about  her 
room.  And  she  found  that  it  was  useless  for  her 
to  read  Ovid,  in  order  to  study  something  of  Roman 
manners,  some  of  which  had  alarmed  and  shocked 
her;  she  found. that  Dante  and  Petrarch  were  too 
difficult  to  learn  Italian  from,  whereas  she  had  only 
to  pick  up  a  word  or  two  in  order  to  make  herself 
understood  in  a  shop  or  by  the  servants;  she  found 
Hare's  Walks  a  too  wearisome  guide,  because  every 
cobble-stone  in  Rome  did  not  inspire  her  with  the 
same  interest  that  Hare  evidently  derived  from  it. 
Then  she  confessed  to  herself  that  she  could  never 
see  Italy  and  Rome  as  Duco  van  der  Staal  did.  She 
never  saw  the  light  of  the  skies  or  the  drifting  of  the 
clouds  as  he  had  seen  them  in  his  unfinished  water- 
colour  sketches.  She  had  never  seen  the  ruins  trans- 
figured in  glory  as  he  did  in  his  hours  of  dreaming 
on  the  Palatine  or  in  the  Forum.  She  saw  a  pic- 
ture merely  with  a  layman's  eye;  a  Byzantine  ma- 
donna made  no  appeal  to  her.  She  was  very  fond 
of  statues;  but  to  fall  head  over  ears  in  love  with  a 
mutilated  marble  torso,  in  the  spirit  in  which  he. 
loved  the  Eros,  seemed  to  her  sickly  .  .  .  and  yet 
it  seemed  to  be  the  right  spirit  in  which  to  see  the 
Eros.  Well,  not  sickly,  she  admitted  .  .  .  but 
morbid:  the  word,  though  she  herself  smiled  at  it,, 
expressed  her  opinion  better;  not  sickly,  but  morbid. 
And  she  looked  upon  an  olive  as  a  tree  rather  like 
a  willow,  whereas  Duco  had  told  her  that  an  olive, 
was  the  most  beautiful  tree  in  the  world. 

She  did  not  agree  with  him,  either  about  the  olive 

59 


60  THE  INEVITABLE 

or  about  the  Eros ;  and  yet  she  felt  that  he  was  right 
from  a  certain  mysterious  standpoint  on  which  there 
was  no  room  for  her,  because  it  was  like  a  mystic 
eminence  amid  impassable  sensitive  spheres  which 
were  not  hers,  even  as  the  eminence  was  to  her  an 
unknown  vantage-point  of  sensitiveness  and  vision. 
She  did  not  agree  with  him  and  yet  she  was  convinced 
.of  his  greater  Tightness,  his  truer  view,  his  nobler 
insight,  his  deeper  feeling;  and  she  was  certain  that 
her  way  of  seeing  Italy,  in  the  disappointment  of  her 
disillusion,  in  the  grey  light  of  a  growing  indifference, 
was  neither  noble  nor  good;  and  she  knew  that  the 
beauty  of  Italy  escaped  her,  whereas  to  him  it  was 
like  a  tangible  and  comprehensible  vision.  And  she 
cleared  away  Ovid  and  Petrarch  and  Hare's  guide- 
book and  locked  them  up  in  her  trunk  and  tooK  out 
the  novels  and  pamphlets  which  had  appeared  that 
year  about  the  woman  movement  in  Holland.  She 
took  an  interest  in  the  problem  and  thought  that  it 
made  her  more  modern  than  Duco,  who  suddenly 
seemed  to  her  to  belong  to  a  bygone  age,  not  mod- 
ern, not  modern.  She  repeated  the  words  with 
enjoyment  and  suddenly  felt  herself  stronger.  To 
be  modern:  that  should  be  her  strength.  One 
phrase  of  Duco's  had  struck  her  immensely,  that  ex- 
clamation : 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  only  find  an  aim !  Our  life  has 
a  line,  a  path,  which  it  must  follow.  .  .  ." 

To  be  modern:  was  that  not  a  line?  To  find  the 
solution  of  a  modern  problem:  was  that  not  an  aim 
in  life?  He  was  quite  right,  from  his  point  of  view, 
from  which  he  saw  Italy;  but  was  not  the  whole  of 
Italy  a  past,  a  dream,  at  least  that  Italy  which  Duco 
saw,  a  dreamy  paradise  of  nothing  but  art?  It 
could  not  be  right  to  stand  like  that,  see  like  that  a 
dream  like  that.  The  present  was  here :  on  the  grey 
horizon  muttered  an  approaching  storm;  and  the 


THE  INEVITABLE  61 

latter-day  problems  flashed  like  lightning.  Was 
that  not  what  she  had  to  live  for?  She  felt  for  the 
woman,  she  felt  for  the  girl:  she  herself  had  been 
the  girl,  brought  up  only  as  a  social  ornament,  to 
shine,  to  be  pretty  and  attractive  and  then  of  course 
to  get  married;  she  had  shone  and  she  had  married; 
and  now  she  was  three-and-twenty,  divorced  from 
the  husband  who  at  one  time  had  been  her  only  aim 
and,  for  her  sake,  the  aim  of  her  parents;  now  she 
was  alone,  astray,  desperate  and  utterly  disconso- 
late: she  had  nothing  to  cling  to  and  she  suffered. 
She  still  loved  him,  cad  and  scoundrel  though  he 
was;  and  she  had  thought  that  she  was  doing  some- 
thing very  clever,  when  she  went  abroad,  to  Italy, 
to  study  art.  But  she  did  not  understand  art,  she 
did  not  feel  Italy.  Oh,  how  clearly  she  saw  it,  after 
those  talks  with  Duco,  that  she  would  never  under- 
stand art,  even  though  she  used  to  sketch  a  bit,  even 
though  she  used  to  have  a  biscuit-group  after  Canova 
in  her  boudoir,  Cupid  and  Psyche:  so  nice  for  a 
young  girl !  And  with  what  certainty  she  now  knew 
that  she  would  never  grasp  Italy,  because  she  did 
not  think  an  olive-tree  so  very  beautiful  ?nd  had 
never  seen  the  sky  of  the  Campagna  as  a  i.Jttering 
phoenix-wing!  No,  Italy  would  never  be  the  conso- 
lation of  her  life.  .  .  . 

But  what  then?  She  had  been  through  much, 
but  she  was  alive  and  very  young.  And  once  again, 
at  the  sight  of  those  pamphlets,  at  the  sight  of  that 
novel,  the  desire  arose  in  her  soul:  to  be  modern, 
to  be  modern !  And  to  take  part  in  the  problem  of 
to-day!  To  live  for  the  future!  To  live  for  her 
fellow-women,  married  or  unmarried!  .  .  . 

She  dared  not  look  deep  down  into  herself,  lest 
she  should  waver.  To  live  for  the  future !  ...  It 
separated  her  a  little  more  from  Duco,  that  new 
ideal.  Did  she  mind?  Was  she  in  love  with  him? 


62  THE  INEVITABLE 

No,  she  thought  not.  She  had  been  in  love  with 
her  husband  and  did  not  want  to  fall  in  love  at  once 
with  the  first  agreeable  young  man  whom  she 
chanced  to  meet  in  Rome.  .  .  . 

And  she  read  the  pamphlets,  about  the  feminine 
problem  and  love.  Then  she  thought  of  her  hus- 
band, then  of  Duco.  And  wearily  she  dropped  the 
pamphlets  and  reflected  how  sad  it  all  was:  people, 
women,  girls.  She,  a  woman,  a  young  woman,  an 
aimless  woman :  how  sad  her  life  was !  And  Duco : 
he  was  happy.  And  yet  he  was  seeking  the  line  of 
his  life,  yet  he  was  looking  out  for  his  aim.  A  new 
restlessness  had  entered  into  him.  And  she  wept 
a  little  and  anxiously  twisted  herself  on  her  cushions 
and  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed,  unconsciously, 
without  knowing  to  whom  she  was  praying: 

"  O  God,  tell  me  what  to  do !  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

It  was  then,  after  a  few  days,  that  Cornelie  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  leaving  the  boarding-house  and 
going  to  live  in  rooms.  The  hotel-life  disturbed  her 
budding  thoughts,  like  a  wind  of  vanity  that  was  con- 
stantly blighting  very  vague  and  fragile  blossoms; 
and,  despite  a  torrent  of  abuse  from  the  marchesa, 
who  reproached  her  with  having  engaged  to  stay 
the  whole  winter,  she  moved  into  the  rooms  which 
she  had  found  with  Duco  van  der  Staal,  after  much 
hunting  and  stair-climbing.  They  were  in  the  Via 
dei  Serpenti,  up  any  number  of  stairs :  a  set  of  two 
roomy,  but  almost  entirely  unfurnished  apartments, 
containing  only  the  absolute  essentials;  and,  though 
the  view  extended  far  and  wide  above  the  house- 
tops of  Rome  to  the  circular  ruin  of  the  Colosseum, 
the  rooms  were  rough  and  uncomfortable,  bare  and 
uninviting.  Duco  had  not  approved  of  them  and 
said  that  they  made  him  shiver,  although  they  faced 
the  sun;  but  there  was  something  about  the  rugged- 
ness  of  the  place  that  harmonized  with  Cornelie's 
new  mood. 

When  they  parted  that  day,  he  thought  how  in- 
artistic she  was  and  she  how  unmodern  he  was. 
They  did  not  meet  again  for  several  days;  and 
Cornelie  was  very  lonely,  but  did  not  feel  her  loneli- 
ness, because  she  was  writing  a  pamphlet  on  the 
social  position  of  divorced  women.  The  idea  was 
suggested  to  her  by  a  few  sentences  in  a  tract  on  the 
feminist  problem;  and  at  once,  without  wasting  much 
time  in  thought,  she  flung  off  her  sentences  in  a  suc- 
cession of  impulses  and  intuitions,  rough-hewn,  cold 
and  clear;  she  wrote  in  an  epistolary  style,  without 

63 


64  THE  INEVITABLE 

literary  art,  as  though  to  warn  girls  against  cherish- 
ing too  many  illusions  about  marriage. 

She  had  not  made  her  rooms  comfortable;  she 
sat  there,  high  up  over  Rome,  with  her  view  across 
the  house-tops  to  the  Colosseum,  writing,  writing 
and  writing,  absorbed  in  her  sorrow,  uttering  her- 
self in  her  stubborn  sentences,  feeling  intensely  bit- 
ter, but  pouring  the  wormwood  of  her  soul  into  her 
pamphlet.  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  the  girls,  who 
came  to  see  her,  were  surprised  by  her  untidy  ap- 
pearance, her  rough-looking  rooms,  with  a  dying 
fire  in  the  little  grate  and  with  no  flowers,  no  books, 
no  tea  and  no  cushions;  and,  when  they  went  away 
after  fifteen  minutes,  pleading  urgent  errands,  they 
looked  at  each  other,  tripping  down  the  endless 
stairs,  with  eyes  of  amazement,  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
understand  this  transformation  of  an  interesting, 
elegant  little  woman,  surrounded  by  an  aura  of 
poetry  and  a  tragic  past,  into  an  "  independent 
woman,"  working  furiously  at  a  pamphlet  full  of 
bitter  invective  against  society.  And,  when  Duco 
looked  her  up  again  in  a  week's  time  and  came  to  sit 
with  her  a  little,  he  remained  silent,  stiff  and  upright 
in  his  chair,  without  speaking,  while  Cornelie  read 
the  beginning  of  her  pamphlet  to  him.  He  was 
touched  by  the  glimpses  which  it  revealed  to  him  of 
personal  suffering  and  experience,  but  he  was  irri- 
tated by  a  certain  discord  between  that  slender,  lily- 
like  woman,  with  her  drooping  movements,  and  the 
surroundings  in  which  she  now  felt  at  her  ease,  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  her  hatred  for  the  society  — 
Hague  society  —  which  had  become  hostile  to  her 
because  she  refused  to  go  on  living  with  a  cad  who 
ill-treated  her.  And  while  she  was  reading,  Duco 
thought : 

"  She  would  not  write  like  that  if  she  were  not 
writing  it  all  down  from  her  own  suffering.  Why 


THE  INEVITABLE  65 

doesn't  she  make  a  novel  of  it?  Why  generalize 
from  one's  personal  sorrows  and  why  that  admonish- 
ing voice?  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  like  it.  He  thought  the  sound  of  that 
voice  was  hard,  those  truths  so  personal,  that  bitter- 
ness unattractive  and  that  hatred  of  convention  so 
small.  And,  when  she  put  a  question  to  him,  he  did 
not  say  much,  nodded  his  head  in  vague  approval 
and  remained  sitting  in  his  stiff,  uncomfortable  atti- 
tude. He  did  not  know  what  to  answer,  he  was 
unable  to  admire,  he  thought  her  inartistic.  And 
yet  a  great  compassion  welled  up  within  him  when 
he  saw,  in  spite  of  it  all,  how  charming  she  would  be 
and  what  charm  and  womanly  dignity  would  be  hers 
could  she  find  the  line  of  her  life  and  moved  har- 
moniously along  that  line  with  the  music  of  her  own 
movement.  He  now  saw  her  taking  a  wrong  road, 
a  path  pointed  out  to  her  by  the  fingers  of  others 
and  not  entered  upon  from  the  impulse  of  her  own 
soul.  And  he  felt  the  deepest  pity  for  her.  He,  an 
artist,  but  above  all  a  dreamer,  sometimes  saw 
vividly,  despite  his  dreaming,  despite  his  sometimes 
all-embracing  love  of  line  and  colour  and  atmo- 
sphere; he,  the  artist  and  dreamer,  sometimes  very 
clearly  saw  the  emotion  looming  through  the  outward 
actions  of  his  fellow-creatures,  saw  it  like  light  shin- 
ing through  alabaster;  and  he  suddenly  saw  her  lost, 
seeking,  straying:  seeking  she  herself  knew  not  what, 
straying  she  herself  knew  not  through  what  laby- 
rinth, far  from  her  line,  the  line  of  her  life  and  the 
course  of  her  soul's  journey,  which  she  had  never  yet 
found. 

She  sat  before  him  excitedly.  She  had  read  her 
last  pages  with  a  flushed  face,  in  a  resonant  voice, 
her  whole  being  in  a  fever.  She  looked  as  if  she 
would  have  liked  to  fling  those  bitter  pages  at 
the  feet  of  her  Dutch  sisters,  at  the  feet  of  all 


66  THE  INEVITABLE 

women.  He,  absorbed  in  his  speculations,  melan- 
choly in  his  pity  for  her,  had  scarcely  listened,  nod- 
ding his  head  in  vague  approval.  And  suddenly  she 
began  to  speak  of  herself,  revealed  herself  wholly, 
told  him  her  life :  her  existence  as  a  young  girl  at  the 
Hague,  her  education  with  a  view  to  shining  a  little 
and  being  attractive  and  pretty,  with  not  one  serious 
glance  at  her  future,  only  waiting  for  a  good  match, 
with  a  flirtation  here  and  a  little  love-affair  there, 
until  she  was  married:  a  good  match,  in  her  own 
circle;  her  husband  a  first  lieutenant  of  hussars,  a 
fine,  handsome  fellow,  of  a  good,  distinguished  fam- 
ily, with  a  little  money.  She  had  fallen  in  love 
with  him  for  his  handsome  face  and  his  fine  figure, 
which  his  uniform  showed  to  advantage,  and  he  with 
her  as  he  might  have  done  with  any  other  girl  who 
had  a  pretty  face.  Then  came  the  revelation  of 
those  very  early  days:  the  discord  between  their 
characters  manifesting  itself  luridly  at  once.  She, 
spoilt  at  home,  dainty,  delicate,  fastidious,  but  self- 
ishly fastidious  and  flying  out  against  any  offence 
to  her  own  spoilt  little  ego;  he  no  longer  the  lover 
but  immediately  and  brutally  the  man  with  rights 
to  this  and  rights  to  that,  with  an  oath  here  and  a 
roar  there;  she  with  neither  the  tact  nor  the  patience 
to  make  of  their  foundering  lives  what  could  still 
be  made  of  them,  nervous,  quick-tempered,  quick  to 
resent  coarseness,  which  made  his  savagery  flare  up 
so  violently  that  he  ill-treated  her,  swore  at  her, 
struck  her,  shook  her  and  banged  her  against  the 
wall. 

The  divorce  followed.  He  had  not  consented  at 
first,  content,  in  spite  of  all,  to  have  a  house  and  in 
that  house  a  wife,  female  to  him,  the  male,  and  de- 
clining to  return  to  the  discomfort  of  life  in  cham- 
bers, until  she  simply  ran  away,  first  to  her  parents, 
then  to  friends  in  the  country,  protesting  loudly 


THE  INEVITABLE  67 

against  the  law,  which  was  so  unjust  to  women.  He 
had  yielded  at  last  and  allowed  himself  to  be  ac- 
cused of  infidelity,  which  was  not  beside  the  truth. 
She  was  now  free,  but  stood  as  it  were  alone,  looked 
at  askance  by  all  her  acquaintances,  refusing  to  yield 
to  their  conventional  demand  for  that  sort  of  half- 
mourning  which,  according  to  their  conventional 
ideas,  should  surround  a  divorced  woman  and  at 
once  returning  to  her  former  life,  the  gay  life  of  an 
unmarried  girl.  But  she  had  felt  that  this  could  not 
go  on,  both  because  of  her  acquaintances  and  because 
of  herself:  her  acquaintances  looking  at  her  askance 
and  she  loathing  her  acquaintances,  loathing  their 
parties  and  dinners,  until  she  felt  profoundly  un- 
happy, lonely  and  forlorn,  without  anything  or  any- 
body to  cling  to,  and  had  felt  all  the  depression  that 
weighs  down  on  the  divorced  woman.  Sometimes, 
in  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  reflected  that  by  dint  of 
great  patience  and  great  tact  she  might  have  man- 
aged that  man,  that  he  was  not  wicked,  only  coarse, 
that  she  was  still  fond  of  him,  or  at  least  of  his 
handsome  face  and  his  sturdy  figure.  Love,  no,  it 
was  not  love;  but  had  she  ever  thought  of  love  as 
she  now  sometimes  pictured  it?  And  did  not  nearly 
everybody  live  more  or  less  so-so,  with  a  good  deal 
of  give  and  take? 

But  this  regret  she  hardly  confessed  to  herself,  did 
not  now  confess  to  Duco;  and  what  she  did  confess 
was  her  bitterness,  her  hatred  of  her  husband,  of 
marriage,  of  convention,  of  people,  of  the  world,  of 
all  the  great  generalities,  generalizing  her  own  feel- 
ings into  one  great  curse  against  life.  He  listened 
to  her,  with  pity.  He  felt  that  there  was  something 
noble  in  her,  which,  however,  had  been  stifled  from 
the  beginning.  He  forgave  her  for  not  being  artis- 
tic, but  he  was  sorry  that  she  had  never  found  her- 
self, that  she  did  not  know  what  she  was,  who  she 


68  THE  INEVITABLE 

was,  what  her  life  should  be,  or  where  the  line  of  her 
life  wound,  the  only  path  which  she  ought  to  tread, 
as  every  life  follows  one  path.  Oh,  how  often,  if  a 
person  would  but  let  herself  go,  like  a  flower,  like  a 
bird,  like  a  cloud,  like  a  star  which  so  obediently  ran 
its  course,  she  would  find  her  happiness  and  her  life, 
even  as  the  flower  or  the  bird  finds  them,  even  as  the 
cloud  drifts  before  the  sun,  even  as  the  star  follows 
its  course  through  the  heavens.  But  he  told  her 
nothing  of  his  thoughts,  knowing  that,  especially  in 
her  present  mood  of  bitterness,  she  would  not  under- 
stand them  and  could  derive  no  comfort  from  them, 
because  they  would  be  too  vague  for  her  and  too  far 
removed  from  her  own  manner  of  thinking.  She 
thought  of  herself,  but  imagined  that  she  was  think- 
ing of  women  and  girls  and  their  movement  towards 
the  future.  The  lines  of  the  women  .  .  .  but  had 
not  every  woman  a  line  of  her  own?  Only,  how  few 
of  them  knew  it:  their  direction,  their  path,  their  line 
of  life,  their  wavering  course  in  the  twilight  of  the 
future.  And  perhaps,  because  they  did  not  know 
it  for  themselves,  they  were  now  all  seeking  together 
a  broad  path,  a  main  road,  along  which  they  would 
march  in  troops,  in  a  threatening  multitude  of 
women,  in  regiments  of  women,  with  banners  and 
mottoes  and  war-cries,  a  broad  path,  parallel  with 
the  movement  of  the  men,  until  the  two  paths  would 
melt  into  one,  until  the  troops  of  women  would 
mingle  with  the  troops  of  men,  with  equal  rights  and 
equal  fullness  of  life.  .  .  . 

He  said  nothing  to  her.  She  noticed  his  silence 
and  did  not  see  how  much  was  going  on  within  him, 
how  earnestly  he  was  thinking  of  her,  how  pro- 
foundly he  pitied  her.  She  thought  that  she  had 
bored  him.  And  suddenly,  around  her,  she  saw 
the  dim,  barren  room,  saw  that  the  fire  was  out; 
and  her  zeal  subsided,  her  fever  cooled  and  she 


THE  INEVITABLE  69 

thought  her  pamphlet  bad,  lacking  strength  and  con- 
viction. What  would  she  not  have  given  for  a  word 
from  him!  But  he  sat  silent,  seemed  to  take  no 
interest,  probably  did  not  admire  her  style  of  writ- 
ing. And  she  felt  sad,  deserted,  lonely,  estranged 
from  him  and  bitter  because  of  the  estrangement; 
she  felt  ready  to  weep,  to  sob;  and,  strange  to  say, 
in  her  bitterness  she  thought  of  him,  of  her  husband, 
with  his  handsome  face.  She  could  not  restrain  her- 
self, she  wept.  Duco  came  up  to  her,  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  Then  she  felt  something  of  what 
was  going  on  within  him  and  that  his  silence  was 
not  due  to  coldness.  She  told  him  that  she  could  not 
remain  alone  that  evening:  she  was  too  wretched, 
too  wretched.  He  comforted  her,  said  that  there 
was  much  that  was  good,  much  that  was  true  in  her 
pamphlet;  that  he  was  not  a  good  judge  of  these 
modern  questions;  that  he  was  never  clever  except 
when  he  talked  about  Italy ;  that  he  felt  so  little  for 
people  and  so  much  for  statues,  so  little  for  what 
was  newly  building  for  a  coming  century  and  so 
much  for  what  lay  in  ruins  and  remained  over  from 
earlier  centuries.  He  said  it  as  though  apologiz- 
ing. She  smiled  through  her  tears  but  repeated 
that  she  could  not  stay  alone  that  evening  and 
that  she  was  coming  with  him  to  Belloni's,  to  his 
mother  and  sisters.  And  they  went  together,  they 
walked  round  together;  and,  to  divert  her  mind, 
he  spoke  to  her  of  his  own  thoughts,  told  her  anec- 
dotes  of  the  Renascence  masters.  She  did  not  hear 
what  he  said,  but  his  voice  was  sweet  to  her  ears. 
There  was  something  so  gentle  about  his  indifference 
to  the  modern  things  that  interested  her,  he  had  so 
much  calmness, .healing  as  balsam,  in  the  restfulness 
of  his  soul,  which  allowed  itself  to  move  along  the 
golden  thread  of  his  dreams,  as  though  that  thread 
was  the  line  of  his  life,  so  much  calmness  and  gentle- 


70  THE  INEVITABLE 

ness  that  she  too  grew  calmer  and  gentler  and  looked 
up  to  him  with  a  smile. 

And,  however  far  removed  they  might  be  from 
each  other  —  he  going  along  a  dreamy  path,  she  lost 
in  an  obscure  maze  —  they  nevertheless  felt  each 
other  approaching,  felt  their  souls  drawing  nearer 
to  each  other,  while  their  bodies  moved  beside  each 
other  in  the  actual  street,  through  Rome,  in  the  eve- 
ning. He  put  his  arm  through  hers  to  guide  her 
steps. 

And,  when  they  came  in  sight  of  Belloni's,  she 
thanked  him,  she  did  not  know  exactly  for  what:  for 
the  look  in  his  eyes,  for  his  voice,  for  the  walk,  for 
the  consolation  which  she  felt  inexplicably  yet  clearly 
radiating  from  him;  and  she  was  glad  to  have  come 
with  him  this  evening  and  to  feel  the  distraction  of 
the  Belloni  table-d'hote  around  her. 

But  at  night,  alone,  alone  in  her  bare  rooms,  she 
was  overcome  by  her  wretchedness  as  by  a  sea  of 
blackness;  and,  looking  out  at  the  Colosseum,  which 
showed  faintly  as  a  black  arc  in  the  black  night,  she 
sobbed  until  she  felt  herself  sinking  to  the  point  of 
death,  derelict,  lonely  and  forlorn,  high  up  above 
Rome,  above  the  roofs,  above  the  pale  lights  of 
Rome  by  night,  under  the  clouds  of  the  black  night, 
sinking  and  derelict,  as  though  she  were  drifting,  a 
shipwrecked  waif  on  an  ocean  which  drowned  the 
world  and  roared  its  plaints  to  the  inexorable 
heavens. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Nevertheless  Cornelie  recovered  her  calmness 
when  her  pamphlet  was  finished.  She  unpacked  her 
trunks,  arranged  her  rooms  a,  little  more  snugly  and, 
now  more  at  her  ease,  rewrote  the  pamphlet  and,  in 
the  revision,  improved  her  style  and  even  her  ideas. 
When  she  had  done  working  in  the  morning,  she 
usually  lunched  at  a  small  osteria,  where  she  nearly 
always  met  Duco  van  der  Staal  and  had  her  meal 
with  him  at  a  little  table.  As  a  rule  she  dined  at 
Belloni's,  beside  the  Van  der  Staals,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain a  little  diversion.  The  marchesa  had  not  bowed 
to  her  at  first,  though  she  suffered  her  to  attend  her 
table-d'hote,  at  three  lire  an  evening;  but  after  a  time 
she  bowed  to  Cornelie  again,  with  a  bitter-sweet  lit- 
tle smile,  for  she  had  relet  her  two  rooms  at  a 
higher  price.  And  Cornelie,  in  her  calmer  mood, 
found  it  pleasant  to  change  in  the  evening,  to  see 
Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  the  girls,  to  listen  to  their 
little  stories  about  the  Roman  salons  and  to  cast  a 
glance  over  the  long  tables.  And  they  saw  that  the 
guests  were  ever  again  different,  as  in  a  kaleidoscope 
of  fleeting  personalities.  Rudyard  had  disappeared, 
owing  money  to  the  marchesa,  no  one  knew  whither; 
the  Von  Rothkirches  had  gone  to  Greece ;  but  Urania 
Hope  was  still  there  and  sat  next  to  the  Marchesa 
Belloni.  On  her  other  side  was  the  nephew,  the 
Prince  of  Forte-Braccio,  Duke  of  San  Stefano,  who 
dined  at  Belloni's  every  night.  And  Cornelie  saw 
that  a  sort  of  conspiracy  was  in  progress,  the  mar- 
chesa and  the  prince  laying  siege  to  the  vain  little 
American  from  either  side.  And  next  day  she  saw 
two  monsignori  seated  in  eager  conversation  with 

71 


72  THE  INEVITABLE 

Urania  at  the  marchesa's  table,  while  the  marchesa 
and  the  prince  nodded  their  heads.  All  the  visitors 
commented  on  it,  every  eye  was  turned  in  that  direc- 
tion, everybody  watched  the  manoeuvres  and  de- 
lighted in  the  romance. 

Cornelie  was  the  only  one  who  was  not  amused. 
She  would  have  liked  to  warn  Urania  against  the 
marchesa,  the  prince  and  the  monsignori  who  had 
taken  Rudyard's  place,  but  especially  against  mar- 
riage, even  marriage  with  a  prince  and  duke.  And, 
growing  excited,  she  spoke  to  Mrs.  van  der  Staal 
and  the  girls,  repeated  phrases  out  of  her  pamphlet, 
glowing  with  her  red  young  hatred  against  society 
and  people  and  the  world. 

Dinner  was  over;  and,  still  eagerly  talking,  she 
went  with  the  Van  der  Staals  —  mevrouw  and  the 
girls  and  Duco  —  to  the  drawing-room,  sat  down  in 
a  corner,  resumed  her  conversation,  flew  out  at 
mevrouw,  who  had  contradicted  her,  and  then  sud- 
denly saw  a  fat  lady  —  the  girls  had  already  nick- 
named her  the  Satin  Frigate  —  come  towards  her 
with  a  smile  and  say,  while  still  at  some  distance: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  there's  something  I  want 
to  say.  Look  here,  I  have  been  to  Belloni's  regu- 
larly every  winter  for  the  last  ten  years,  from  No- 
vember to  Easter;  and  every  evening  after  dinner  — 
but  only  after  dinner  —  I  sit  in  this  corner,  at  this 
table,  on  this  sofa.  I  hope  you  won't  mind,  but  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  my  own  seat  now." 

And  the  Satin  Frigate  smiled  amiably;  but,  when 
the  Van  der  Staals  and  Cornelie  rose  in  mute  amaze- 
ment, she  dumped  herself  down  with  a  rustle  on  the 
sofa,  bobbed  up  and  down  for  a  moment  on  the 
springs,  laid  her  crochet-work  on  the  table  with  a 
gesture  as  though  she  were  planting  the  Union  Jack 
in  a  new  colony  and  said,  with  her  most  amiable 
smile : 


THE  INEVITABLE  73 

"  Very  much  obliged.     So  many  thanks." 

Duco  roared,  the  girls  giggled,  but  the  Satin 
Frigate  merely  nodded  to  them  good-humouredly. 
And,  not  even  yet  realizing  what  had  happened, 
astounded  but  gay,  they  sat  down  in  another  corner, 
the  girls  still  seized  with  an  irrepressible  giggle. 
The  two  aesthetic  ladies,  with  the  evening-dress  and 
the  Jaegers,  who  sat  reading  at  the  table  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  closed  their  two  books  with  one 
slam,  rose  and  indignantly  went  away,  because 
people  were  laughing  and  talking  in  the  drawing- 
room: 

"  It's  a  shame !  "  they  said,  aloud. 

And,  angular,  arrogant  and  grimy,  they  stalked 
out  through  the  door. 

"What  strange  people!"  thought  Duco,  smiling. 
"Shadows  of  people!  .  .  .  Their  lines  curl  like 
arabesque  through  ours.  Why  do  they  cross  our 
lines  with  their  petty  movements  and  why  are  ours 
never  crossed  by  those  which  perhaps  would  be 
dearest  to  our  souls?  .  .  ." 

He  always  took  Cornelie  back  to  the  Via  dei 
Serpenti.  They  walked  slowly  through  the  silent, 
deserted  streets.  Sometimes  it  was  late  in  the  eve- 
ning, but  sometimes  it  was  immediately  after  dinner 
and  then  they  would  go  through  the  Corso  and  he 
would  generally  ask  her  to  come  and  sit  at  Aragno's 
for  a  little.  She  agreed  and  they  drank  their  coffee 
amid  the  gaiety  of  the  brightly-lit  cafe,  watching  the 
bustle  on  the  pavement  outside.  They  exchanged 
few  words,  distracted  by  the  passers-by  and  the 
visitors  to  the  cafe;  but  they  both  enjoyed  this  mo- 
ment and  felt  at  one  with  each  other.  Duco  evi- 
dently did  not  give  a  thought  to  the  unconvention- 
ality  of  their  behaviour;  but  Cornelie  thought  of 
Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  that  she  would  not  approve 
of  it  or  consent  to  it  in  one  of  her  daughters,  to  sit 


74  THE  INEVITABLE 

alone  with  a  gentleman  in  a  cafe  in  the  evening. 
And  Cornelie  also  remembered  the  Hague  and 
smiled  at  the  thought  of  her  Hague  friends.  And 
she  looked  at  Duco,  who  sat  quietly,  pleased  to  be 
sitting  with  her,  and  drank  his  coffee  and  spoke  a 
word  now  and  again  or  pointed  to  a  queer  type  or  a 
pretty  woman  passing.  .  .  . 

One  evening,  after  dinner,  he  suggested  that  they 
should  all  go  to  the  ruins.  It  was  full  moon,  a 
wonderful  sight.  But  mevrouw  was  afraid  of 
malaria,  the  girls  of  foot-pads;  and  Duco  and 
Cornelie  went  by  themselves.  The  streets  were 
quite  empty,  the  Colosseum  rose  menacingly  like  a 
fortress  in  the  night;  but  they  went  in  and  the  moon- 
light blue  of  the  night  shone  through  the  open 
arches :  the  round  pit  of  the  arena  was  black  on  one 
side  with  shadow,  while  the  stream  of  moonlight 
poured  in  on  the  other  side,  like  a  white  flood,  like  a 
cascade;  and  it  was  as  though  the  night  were 
haunted,  as  though  the  Colosseum  were  haunted  by 
all  the  dead  past  of  Rome,  emperors,  gladiators  and 
martyrs ;  shadows  prowled  like  lurking  wild  animals, 
a  patch  of  light  suggested  a  naked  woman  and  the 
galleries  seemed  to  rustle  with  the  sound  of  the 
multitude.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  and  Duco 
and  Cornelie  were  alone,  in  the  depths  of  the  huge, 
colossal  ruin,  half  in  shadow  and  half  in  light;  and, 
though  she  was  not  afraid,  she  was  obsessed  by  that 
awful  haunting  of  the  past  and  pushed  closer  to  him 
and  clutched  his  arm  and  felt  very,  very  small.  He 
just  pressed  her  hand,  with  his  simple  ease  of  man- 
ner, to  reassure  her.  And  the  night  oppressed  her, 
the  ghostliness  of  it  all  suffocated  her,  the  moon 
seemed  to  whirl  giddily  in  the  sky  and  to  expand  to 
a  gigantic  size  and  spin  round  like  a  silver  wheel. 
He  said  nothing,  he  was  in  one  of  his  dreams,  seeing 
the  past  before  him.  And  silently  they  went  away 


THE  INEVITABLE  7^ 

and  he  led  her  through  the  Arch  of  Titus  into  the 
Forum.  On  the  left  rose  the  ruins  of  the  imperial 
palaces;  and  all  around  them  stood  the  black  frag- 
ments, with  a  few  pillars  soaring  on  high  and  the 
white  moonlight  pouring  down  like  a  ghostly  sea  out 
of  the  night.  They  met  no  one,  but  she  was  fright- 
ened and  clung  tighter  to  his  arm.  When  they  sat 
down  for  a  moment  on  a  fragment  of  the  foundation 
of  some  ancient  building,  she  shivered  with  cold. 
He  started  up,  said  that  she  must  be  careful  not  to 
catch  a  chill ;  and  they  walked  on  and  left  the  Forum. 
He  took  her  home  and  she  went  upstairs  alone, 
striking  a  match  to  see  her  way  up  the  dark  stair- 
case. Once  in  her  room,  she  perceived  that  it  was 
dangerous  to  wander  about  the  ruins  at  night.  She 
reflected  how  little  Duco  had  spoken,  not  thinking 
of  danger,  lost  in  his  nocturnal  dream,  peering  into 
the  awful  ghostliness.  Why  .  .  .  why  had  he  not 
gone  alone?  Why  had  he  asked  her  to  go  with 
him?  She  fell  asleep  after  a  chaos  of  whirling 
thoughts :  the  prince  and  Urania,  the  fat  satin  lady, 
the  Colosseum  and  the  martyrs  and  Duco  and  Mrs. 
van  der  Staal.  His  mother  was  so  ordinary,  his 
sisters  charming  but  commonplace  and  he  ...  so 
strange!  So  simple,  so  unaffected,  so  unreserved; 
and  for  that  very  reason  so  strange.  He  would  be 
impossible  at  the  Hague,  among  her  friends.  And 
she  smiled  as  she  thought  of  what  he  had  said  and 
how  he  had  said  it  and  how  he  could  sit  quietly  si- 
lent, for  minutes  on  end,  with  a  smile  about  his  lips, 
as  though  thinking  of  something  beautiful.  .  .  . 

But  she  must  warn  Urania.  .  .  . 

And  she  wearily  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Cornelia's  premonition  regarding  Mrs.  van  der 
Staal's  opinion  of  her  intercourse  with  Duco  was 
confirmed:  mevrouw  spoke  to  her  seriously,  saying 
that  she  would  compromise  herself  if  she  went  on 
like  that  and  adding  that  she  had  spoken  to  Duco 
in  the  same  sense.  But  Cornelie  answered  rather 
haughtily  and  nonchalantly,  declared  that,  after  al- 
ways minding  the  conventions  and  becoming  very 
unhappy  in  spite  of  it,  she  had  resolved  to  mind  them 
no  longer,  that  she  valued  Duco's  conversation  and 
that  she  was  not  going  to  be  deprived  of  it  because 
of  what  people  thought  or  said.  And  then,  she 
asked  Mrs.  van  der  Staal,  who  were  "people?" 
Their  three  or  four  acquaintances  at  Belloni's? 
Who  knew  her  besides?  Where  else  did  she  go? 
Why  should  she  care  about  the  Hague?  And  she 

fave  a  scornful  laugh,  loftily  parrying  Mrs.  van  der 
taal's  arguments. 

The  conversation  caused  a  coolness  between  them. 
Wounded  in  her  touchy  over-sensitiveness,  she  did 
not  come  to  dinner  at  Belloni's  that  evening.  Next 
day,  meeting  Duco  at  their  little  table  in  the  osteria, 
she  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  his  mother's  re- 
buke. He  smiled  vaguely,  raising  his  eyebrows,  ob- 
viously not  realizing  the  commonplace  truth  of  his 
mother's  words,  saying  that  those  were  just 
Mamma's  ideas,  which  of  course  were  all  very  well 
and  current  in  the  set  in  which  Mamma  and  his  sis- 
ters lived,  but  which  he  didn't  enter  into  or  bother 
about,  unless  Cornelie  thought  that  Mamma  was 
right.  And  Cornelie  blazed  out  contemptuously, 

76 


THE  INEVITABLE  77, 

shrugged  her  shoulders,  asked  who  or  what  there  was 
for  whose  sake  she  should  allow  herself  to  break  off 
their  friendly  intercourse.  They  ordered  a  mezzo- 
fiasco  between  them  and  had  a  long,  chatty  lunch  like 
two  comrades,  like  two  students.  He  said  that  he 
had  been  thinking  over  her  pamphlet;  he  talked,  to 
please  her,  about  the  modern  woman,  modern  mar- 
riage, the  modern  girl.  She  condemned  the  way  in 
which  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  was  bringing  up  her  daugh- 
ters, that  light,  frivolous  education  and  that  endless 
going  about,  on  the  look  for  a  husband.  She  said 
that  she  spoke  from  experience. 

They  walked  along  the  Via  Appia  that  afternoon 
and  went  to  the  Catacombs,  where  a  Trappist 
showed  them  round.  When  Cornelie  returned  home 
she  felt  pleasantly  light  and  cheerful.  She  did  not 
go  out  again ;  she  piled  up  the  logs  on  her  fire  against 
the  evening,  which  was  turning  chilly,  and  supped  off 
a  little  bread  and  jelly,  so  as  not  to  go  out  for  her 
dinner.  Sitting  in  her  tea-gown,  with  her  hands 
folded  over  her  head,  she  stared  into  the  briskly 
burning  logs  and  let  the  evening  speed  past  her. 
She  was  satisfied  with  her  life,  so  free,  independent 
of  everything  and  everybody.  She  had  a  little 
money,  she  could  go  on  living  like  this.  She  had  no 
great  needs.  Her  life  in  rooms,  in  little  restaurants 
was  not  expensive.  She  wanted  no  clothes.  She 
felt  satisfied.  Duco  was  an  agreeable  friend:  how 
lonely  she  would  be  without  him!  Only  her  life 
must  acquire  some  aim.  What  aim?  The  feminist 
movement?  But  how,  abroad?  It  was  such  a  dif- 
ferent movement  to  work  at.  ...  She  would  send 
her  pamphlet  now  to  a  newly  founded  women's 
paper.  But  then?  She  wasn't  in  Holland  and  she 
didn't  want  to  go  to  Holland;  and  yet  there  would 
certainly  be  more  scope  there  for  her  activity,  for 
exchanging  views  with  others.  Whereas  here,  in 


78  THE  INEVITABLE 

Rome.  .  .  .  An  indolence  overcame  her,  in  the 
drowsiness  of  her  cosy  room.  For  Duco  had  helped 
her  to  arrange  her  sitting-room.  He  certainly  was 
a  cultivated  fellow,  even  though  he  was  not  modern. 
What  a  lot  he  knew  about  history,  about  Italy;  and 
how  cleverly  he  told  it  all!  The  way  he  explained 
Italy  to  her,  she  was  interested  in  the  country  after 
all. 

Only,  he  wasn't  modern.  He  had  no  insight  into 
Italian  politics,  into  the  struggle  between  the  Quiri- 
nal  and  the  Vatican,  into  anarchism,  which  was  show- 
ing its  head  at  Milan,  into  the  riots  in  Sicily.  .  .  . 
An  aim  in  life :  what  a  difficult  thing  it  was !  And, 
in  her  evening  drowsiness  after  a  pleasant  day,  she 
did  not  feel  the  absence  of  an  aim  and  enjoyed  the 
soft  luxury  of  letting  her  thoughts  glide  on  in  unison 
with  the  drowsy  evening  hours,  in  a  voluptuous  self- 
indulgence.  She  looked  at  the  sheets  of  her  pamph- 
let, scattered  over  her  big  writing-table,  a  real 
table  to  work  at:  they  lay  yellow  under  the  light  of 
her  reading-lamp;  they  had  not  all  been  recopied, 
but  she  was  not  in  the  mood  now;  she  threw  a  log 
into  the  little  grate  and  the  fire  smoked  and  blazed. 
So  pleasant,  that  foreign  habit  of  burning  wood  in- 
stead of  coal.  .  .  . 

And  she  thought  of  her  husband.  She  missed  him 
sometimes.  Could  she  not  have  managed  him,  with 
a  little  tact  and  patience?  After  all,  he  was  very 
nice  during  the  period  of  their  engagement.  He 
was  rough,  but  not  bad.  He  might  have  sworn  at 
her  sometimes,  but  perhaps  he  did  not  mean  any 
great  harm.  He  waltzed  divinely,  he  swung  you 
round  so  firmly.  .  .  .  He  was  good-looking  and, 
she  had  to  confess,  she  was  in  love  with  him,  if 
only  for  his  handsome  face,  his  handsome  figure. 
There  was  something  about  his  eyes  and  mouth  that 
she  was  never  able  to  resist.  When  he  spoke,  she 


THE  INEVITABLE  79 

had  to  look  at  his  mouth.     However,  that  was  all 
over  and  done  with.  .  .  . 

After  all,  perhaps  the  life  at  the  Hague  was  too 
monotonous  for  her  temperament.  She  liked  travel- 
ling, seeing  new  people,  developing  new  ideas;  and 
she  had  never  been  able  to  settle  down  in  her  little 
set.  And  now  she  was  free,  independent  of  all  ties, 
of  all  people.  If  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  was  angry,  she 
didn't  care.  .  .  .  And,  all  the  same,  Duco  was 
rather  modern,  in  his  indifference  to  convention.  Or 
was  it  merely  the  artistic  side  in  him?  Or  was  he, 
as  a  man  who  was  not  modern,  indifferent  to  it  even 
as  she,  a  modern  woman,  was?  A  man  could  allow 
himself  more.  A  man  was  not  so  easily  compro- 
mised. ...  A  modern  woman.  She  repeated  the 
words  proudly.  Her  drowsiness  acquired  a  certain 
arrogance.  She  drew  herself  up,  stretching  out  her 
arms,  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass:  her  slender 
figure,  her  delicate  little  face,  a  trifle  pale,  with  the 
eyes  big  and  grey  and  bright  under  their  remarkably 
long  lashes,  her  light-brown  hair  in  a  loose,  tangled 
coil,  the  lines  of  her  figure,  like  those  of  a  drooping 
lily,  very  winsome  in  the  creased  folds  of  her  old  tea- 
gown,  pale-pink  and  faded.  .  .  .  What  was  her 
path  in  life?  She  felt  herself  to  be  something  more 
than  a  worker  and  fighter,  to  be  very  complex,  felt 
that  she  was  a  woman  too,  felt  a  great  womanliness 
inside  her,  like  a  weakness  which  would  hamper  her 
energy.  And  she  wandered  through  the  room,  un- 
able to  decide  to  go  to  bed,  and,  staring  into  the 
gloomy  ashes  of  the  expiring  fire,  she  thought  of  her 
future,  of  what  she  would  become  and  how,  of  how 
she  would  go  and  whither,  along  which  curve  of  life, 
wandering  through  what  forests,  winding  through 
what  alleys,  crossing  which  other  curves  of  which 
other,  seeking  souls.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  idea  had  long  fixed  itself  in  Cornelie's  mind 
that  she  must  speak  to  Urania  Hope;  and  one  morn- 
ing she  sent  her  a  note  asking  for  an  appointment 
that  afternoon.  Miss  Hope  wrote  back  assenting; 
and  at  five  o'clock  Cornelie  found  her  at  home  in  her 
handsome  and  expensive  sitting-room  at  Belloni's: 
many  lights,  many  flowers;  Urania  hammering  on 
the  piano  in  an  indoor  gown  of  Venetian  lace;  the 
table  decked  with  a  rich  tea,  with  cut  bread-and- 
butter,  cakes  and  sweets.  Cornelie  had  said  that 
she  wanted  to  see  Miss  Hope  alone,  on  a  matter  of 
importance,  and  at  once  asked  if  she  would  be  alone, 
feeling  a  doubt  of  it,  now  that  Urania  was  receiving 
her  so  formally.  But  Urania  reassured  her :  she  had 
said  that  she  was  at  home  to  no  one  but  Mrs.  de 
Retz  and  was  very  curious  to  know  what  Cornelie 
had  come  to  talk  about.  Cornelie  reminded  Urania 
of  her  former  warning  and,  when  Urania  laughed, 
she  took  her  hand  and  looked  at  her  with  such  se- 
rious eyes  that  she  made  an  impression  of  the  Amer- 
ican girl's  frivolous  nature  and  Urania  became  puz- 
zled. Urania  now  suddenly  thought  it  very  mo- 
mentous —  a  secret,  an  intrigue,  a  danger,  in  Rome  1 
—  and  they  whispered  together.  And  Cornelie,  no 
longer  feeling  anxious  amid  this  increasing  intimacy, 
confessed  to  Urania  what  she  had  heard  through 
the  half-open  door:  the  marchesa's  machinations 
with  her  nephew,  whom  she  was  absolutely  bent  on 
marrying  to  a  rich  heiress  at  the  behest  of  the  prince's 
father,  who  seemed  to  have  promised  her  so  much 
for  putting  the  match  through.  Then  she  spoke  of 

80 


THE  INEVITABLE  81 

Miss  Taylor's  conversion,  effected  by  Rudyard: 
Rudyard,  who  did  not  seem  able  to  achieve  his  pur- 
pose with  Urania,  failing  to  obtain  a  hold  on  her 
confiding,  but  frivolous,  butterfly  nature,  and  who, 
as  Cornelie  suspected,  had  for  that  reason  incurred 
the  disfavour  of  his  ecclesiastical  superiors  and  van- 
ished without  settling  his  debt  to  the  marchesa.  His 
place  appeared  to  have  been  taken  by  the  two  mon- 
signori,  who  looked  more  dignified  and  worldly  and 
displayed  great  unctuousness,  were  more  lavish  in 
smiles.  And  Urania,  staring  at  this  danger,  at  these 
pit-falls  under  her  feet  which  Cornelie  had  suddenly 
revealed  to  her,  now  became  really  frightened,  turned 
pale  and  promised  to  be  on  her  guard.  Really  she 
would  have  liked  to  tell  her  maid  to  pack  up  at  once, 
so  that  they  might  leave  Rome  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  another  town,  another  pension,  one  with  lots  of 
titled  people :  she  adored  titles !  And  Cornelie,  see- 
ing that  she  had  made  an  impression,  continued, 
spoke  of  herself,  spoke  of  marriage  in  general,  said 
that  she  had  written  a  pamphlet  against  marriage 
and  on  The  Social  Position  of  Divorced  Women. 
And  she  spoke  of  the  suffering  which  she  had  been 
through  and  of  the  feminist  movement  in  Holland. 
And,  once  in  the  vein,  she  abandoned  all  restraint 
and  talked  more  and  more  emphatically,  until  Urania 
thought  her  exceedingly  clever,  a  very  clever  girl, 
to  be  able  to  argue  and  write  like  that  on  a  ques-tion 
bru-lante,  laying  a  fine  stress  on  the  first  syllables  of 
the  French  words.  She  admitted  that  she  would 
like  to  have  the  vote  and,  as  she  said  this,  spread 
out  the  long  train  of  her  lace  tea-gown.  Cornelie 
spoke  of  the  injustice  of  the  law  which  leaves  the  wife 
nothing,  takes  everything  from  her  and  forces  her 
entirely  into  the  husband's  power;  and  Urania  agreed 
with  her  and  passed  the  little  dish  of  chocolate- 
creams.  And  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  second  cup 


82  THE  INEVITABLE 

of  tea  they  talked  excitedly,  both  speaking  at  once, 
neither  listening  to  what  the  other  was  saying;  and 
Urania  said  that  it  was  a  shame.  From  the  general 
discussion  they  relapsed  to  the  consideration  of  their 
particular  interests:  Cornelie  depicted  the  charac- 
ter of  her  husband,  unable,  in  the  coarseness  of  his 
nature,  to  understand  a  woman  or  to  consent  that  a 
woman  should  stand  beside  him  and  not  beneath 
him.  And  she  once  more  returned  to  the  Jesuits, 
to  the  danger  of  Rome  for  rich  girls  travelling  alone, 
to  that  virago  of  a  marchesa  and  to  the  prince,  that 
titled  bait  which  the  Jesuits  flung  to  win  a  soul  and 
to  improve  the  finances  of  an  impoverished  Italian 
house  which  had  remained  faithful  to  the  Pope  and 
refused  to  serve  the  king.  And  both  of  them  were 
so  vehement  and  excited  that  they  did  not  hear  the 
knock  and  looked  up  only  when  the  door  slowly 
opened.  They  started,  glanced  round  and  both 
turned  pale  when  they  saw  the  Prince  of  Forte- 
Braccio  enter  the  room.  He  apologized  with  a 
smile,  said  that  he  had  seen  a  light  in  Miss  Urania's 
sitting-room,  that  the  porter  had  told  him  she  was 
engaged,  but  that  he  had  ventured  to  disobey  her 
orders.  And  he  sat  down;  and,  in  spite  of  all  that 
they  had  been  saying,  Urania  thought  it  delightful 
to  have  the  prince  sitting  there  and  accepting  a  cup 
of  tea  at  her  hands  and  graciously  consenting  to  eat 
a  piece  of  cake. 

And  Urania  showed  her  album  of  coats  of  arms 
—  the  prince  had  already  contributed  an  impression 
of  his  —  and  next  the  album  with  patterns  of  the 
queen's  ball-dresses.  Then  the  prince  laughed  and 
felt  in  his  pocket  for  an  envelope;  he  opened  it  and 
carefully  produced  a  cutting  of  blue  brocade  em- 
broidered with  silver  and  seed-pearls. 
'  What  is  it?  "  asked  Urania,  in  ecstasy. 

And  he  said  that  he  had  brought  her  a  pattern 


THE  INEVITABLE  83 

of  her  majesty's  last  dress;  his  cousin  —  not  a 
Black,  like  himself,  but  a  White,  belonging  not  to 
the  papal  but  to  the  court  party  and  a  lady-in-wait- 
ing to  the  queen  —  had  procured  this  cutting  for 
him  for  Urania's  album.  Urania  would  see  it  her- 
self: the  queen  would  wear  the  dress  at  next  week's 
court  ball.  He  was  not  going,  he  did  not  even  go 
to  his  cousin's  officially,  not  to  her  parties;  but  he 
saw  her  sometimes,  because  of  the  family  relation- 
ship, out  of  friendship.  And  he  begged  Urania  not 
to  give  him  away:  it  might  injure  him  in  his  career 
— "  What  career?  "  Cornelie  wondered  to  herself  — ; 
if  people  knew  that  he  saw  much  of  his  cousin;  but 
he  had  called  on  her  pretty  often  lately,  for  Urania's 
sake,  to  get  her  that  pattern. 

And  Urania  was  so  grateful  that  she  forgot  all 
about  the  social  position  of  girls  and  women,  mar- 
ried or  unmarried,  and  would  gladly  have  sacrificed 
her  right  to  the  franchise  for  such  a  charming  Ita- 
lian prince.  Cornelie  became  vexed,  rose,  bowed 
coldly  to  the  prince  and  drew  Urania  with  her  to 
the  door: 

"  Don't  forget  what  we  have  been  saying,"  she 
warned  her.  "  Be  on  your  guard." 

And  she  saw  the  prince  look  at  her  sarcastically, 
as  they  whispered  together,  suspecting  that  she  was 
talking  about  him,  but  proud  of  the  power  of  his  per- 
sonality and  his  title  and  his  attentions  over  the 
daughter  of  an  American  stockinet-manufacturer. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  coolness  had  arisen  between  Mrs.  van  der  Staal 
and  Cornelie;  and  Cornelie  no  longer  went  to  dine 
at  Belloni's.  She  did  not  see  mevrouw  and  the  girls 
again  for  weeks ;  but  she  saw  Duco  daily.  Notwith- 
standing the  essential  differences  in  their  characters, 
they  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  being  together  that 
they  missed  each  other  if  a  day  passed  without  their 
meeting;  and  so  they  had  gradually  come  to  lunch 
and  dine  together  every  day,  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course :  in  the  morning  at  the  osteria  and  in  the  eve- 
ning at  some  small  restaurant  or  other,  usually  very 
simply.  To  avoid  dividing  the  bill,  Duco  would 
pay  one  time  and  Cornelie  the  next.  -  Generally  they 
had  much  to  talk  about:  he  taught  her  Rome,  took 
her  after  lunch  to  all  manner  of  churches  and  mu- 
seums; and  under  his  guidance  she  began  to  under- 
stand, appreciate  and  admire.  By  unconscious  sug- 
festion  he  inspired  her  with  some  of  his  ideas.  She 
ound  painting  very  difficult,  but  understood  sculp- 
ture much  more  readily.  And  she  began  to  look 
upon  him  as  not  merely  morbid;  she  looked  up  to 
him,  he  spoke  quite  simply  to  her,  as  from  his  ex- 
alted standpoint  of  feeling  and  knowledge  and  un- 
derstanding, of  very  exalted  matters  which  she,  as 
a  girl  and  later  as  a  young  married  woman,  had 
never  seen  in  the  glorious  apotheosis  which  he  caused 
to  rise  before  her  like  the  first  gleam  of  a  dawn,  of  a 
new  day  in  which  she  beheld  new  types  of  life,  cre- 
ated of  all  that  was  noblest  in  the  artist's  soul.  He 
regretted  that  he  could  not  show  her  Giotto  in  the 
Santa  Croce  at  Florence  and  the  Primitives  in  the 

84 


THE  INEVITABLE  85 

Uffizi  and  that  he  had  to  teach  her  Rome  straight 
away;  but  he  introduced  her  to  all  the  exuberant  art- 
life  of  the  Papal  Renascence,  until,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  his  speech,  she  shared  that  life  for  a  single 
intense  second  and  until  Michael  Angelo  and  Ra- 
phael stood  out  before  her,  also  living.  After  a  day 
like  that,  he  would  think  that  after  all  she  was  not 
so  hopelessly  inartistic;  and  she  thought  of  him  with 
respect,  even  after  the  suggestion  was  interrupted 
and  when  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  seen  and 
heard  and  really,  deep  down  in  herself,  no  longer 
understood  things  so  well  as  she  had  that  morning, 
because  she  was  lacking  in  love  for  them.  But  so 
much  glamour  of  colour  and  the  past  remained 
whirling  before  her  eyes  in  the  evening  that  it  made 
her  pamphlet  seem  drab  and  dull;  and  the  feminist 
movement  ceased  to  interest  her  and  she  did  not 
care  about  Urania  Hope. 

He  admitted  to  himself  that  he  had  quite  lost  his 
peace  of  mind,  that  Cornelie  stood  before  him  in 
his  thoughts,  between  him  and  his  old  triptychs,  that 
his  lonely,  friendless,  ingenuous,  simple  life,  content 
with  wandering  through  and  outside  Rome,  with 
reading,  dreaming  and  now  and  then  painting  a  little, 
had  changed  entirely  in  habit  and  in  line,  now  that 
the  line  of  his  life  had  crossed  that  of  hers  and  they 
both  seemed  to  be  going  one  way,  he  did  not  really 
know  why.  Love  was  not  exactly  the  word  for  the 
feeling  that  drew  him  towards  her.  And  just  very 
vaguely,  inwardly  and  unconsciously  he  suspected, 
though  he  never  actually  said  or  even  thought  as 
much,  that  it  was  the  line  of  her  figure,  which  was 
marked  by  something  almost  Byzantine,  the  slender- 
ness  of  the  frame,  the  long  arms,  the  drooping  lily- 
line  of  the  woman  who  suffered,  with  the  melancholy 
in  her  grey  eyes,  overshadowed  by  their  almost  too- 
long  lashes ;  that  it  was  the  noble  shape  of  her  hand, 


86  THE  INEVITABLE 

small  and  pretty  for  a  tall  woman;  that  it  was  a 
movement  of  her  neck,  as  of  a  swaying  stalk,  or  a 
tired  swan  trying  to  glance  backwards.  He  had 
never  met  many  women  and  those  whom  he  had  met 
had  always  seemed  very  ordinary;  but  she  was  un- 
real to  him,  in  the  contradictions  of  her  character, 
in  its  vagueness  and  intangibility,  in  all  the  half-tints 
which  escaped  his  eye,  accustomed  to  half-tints 
though  it  was.  .  .  .  What  was  she  like?  What 
he  had  always  seen  in  her  character  was  a  woman 
in  a  novel,  a  heroine  in  a  poem.  What  was  she  as 
a  living  woman  of  flesh  and  blood?  She  was  not 
artistic  and  she  was  not  inartistic;  she  had  no  energy 
and  yet  she  did  not  lack  energy;  she  was  not  pre- 
cisely cultivated;  and  yet,  obeying, her  impulse  and 
her  intuition,  she  wrote  a  pamphlet  on  one  of  the 
most  modern  questions  and  worked  at  it  and  revised 
and  copied  it,  till  it  became  a  piece  of  writing  no 
worse  than  another.  She  had  a  spacious  way  of 
thinking,  loathing  all  the  pettiness  of  the  cliques,  no 
longer  feeling  at  home,  after  her  suffering,  in  her 
little  Hague  set;  and  here,  in  Rome,  at  a  dance  she 
listened  behind  a  door  to  a  nonsensical  conspiracy, 
hardly  worthy  of  the  name,  he  thought,  and  had 
gone  to  Urania  Hope  to  mingle  with  the  confused 
curves  of  smaller  lives,  curves  without  importance, 
of  people  whom  he  despised  for  their  lack  of  line, 
of  colour,  of  vision,  of  haze,  of  everything  that  was 
dear  as  life  to  him  and  made  up  life  for  him.  .  .  . 
What  was  she  like?  He  did  not  understand  her. 
But  her  curve  was  of  importance  to  him.  She  was 
not  without  a  line:  a  line  of  art  and  line  of  life;  she 
moved  in  the  dream  of  her  own  indefiniteness  be- 
fore his  gazing  eyes;  and  she  loomed  up  out  of  the 
haze,  as  out  of  the  twilight  of  his  studio  atmosphere, 
and  stood  before  him  like  a  phantom.  He  would 
not  call  that  love;  but  she  was  dear  to  him  like  a 


THE  INEVITABLE  87 

revelation  that  constantly  veiled  itself  in  secrecy. 
And  his  life  as  a  lonely  wanderer  was,  it  was  true, 
changed ;  but  she  had  introduced  no  inharmonious 
habit  into  his  life:  he  enjoyed  taking  his  meals  in  a 
little  cafe  or  osteria;  and  she  took  them  with  him 
easily  and  simply,  not  squalidly  but  pleasantly  and 
harmoniously,  with  an  adaptability  and  with  just  as 
much  natural  grace  as  when  she  used  to  dine  of  an 
evening  at  the  table-d'hote  at  Belloni's.  All  this  — 
that  contradictory  admixture  of  unreality,  of  incon- 
sistency; that  living  vision  of  indefiniteness ;  that  in- 
tangibility of  her  individual  essence;  that  self-con- 
cealment of  the  soul;  that  blending  of  her  essential 
characteristics  —  had  become  a  charm  to  him:  a 
restlessness,  a  need,  a  nervous  want  in  his  life,  other- 
wise so  restful,  so  easily  contented  and  calm,  but 
above  all  a  charm,  an  indispensable  every-day  charm. 
And,  without  troubling  about  what  people  might 
think,  about  what  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  thought,  they 
would  one  day  go  to  Tivoli  together,  or  another  day 
walk  from  Castel  Gandolfo  to  Albano  and  drive  to 
the  Lago  di  Nemi  and  picnic  at  the  Villa  Sforza- 
Cesarini,  with  the  broken  capital  of  a  classic  pillar 
for  a  table.  They  rested  side  by  side  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  admired  the  camellias,  silently  contem- 
plated the  glassy  clearness  of  the  lake,  Diana's 
looking-glass,  and  drove  back  over  Frascati.  They 
were  silent  in  the  carriage;  and  he  smiled  as  he  re- 
flected how  they  had  been  taken  everywhere  that 
day  for  man  and  wife.  She  also  thought  of  their 
increasing  intimacy  and  at  the  same  time  thought 
that  she  would  never  marry  again.  And  she  thought 
of  her  husband  and  compared  him  with  Duco,  so 
young  in  the  face  but  with  eyes  full  of  depth  and 
soul,  a  voice  so  calm  and  even,  with  everything  that 
he  said  much  to  the  point,  so  accurately  informed; 
and  then  his  calmness,  his  simplicity,  his  lack  of  pas- 


88  THE  INEVITABLE 

sion,  as  though  his  nerves  had  schooled  themselves 
only  to  feel  the  calmness  of  art  in  the  dreamy  mist 
of  his  life.  And  she  confessed  to  herself,  there,  in 
the  carriage  beside  him,  amid  the  softly  shelving 
hills,  purpling  away  in  the  evening,  while  before 
her  faded  the  rose-mallow  of  a  pale  gold  sunset, 
that  he  was  dear  to  her  because  of  that  cleverness, 
that  absence  of  passion,  that  simplicity  and  that  ac- 
curacy of  information  —  a  clear  voice  sounding  up 
out  of  the  dreamy  twilight  —  and  that  she  was 
happy  to  be  sitting  beside  him,  to  hear  that  voice 
and  by  chance  to  feel  his  hand,  happy  in  that  her 
line  of  life  had  crossed  his,  in  that  their  two  lines 
seemed  to  form  a  path  towards  the  increasing  bright- 
ness, the  gradual  daily  elucidation  of  their  imme- 
diate future.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Cornelie  now  saw  no  one  except  Duco.  Mrs.  van 
der  Staal  had  broken  with  her  and  would  not  allow 
her  daughters  to  have  any  further  intercourse  with 
her.  A  coolness  had  arisen  even  between  the 
mother  and  the  son.  Cornelie  saw  no  one  now  ex- 
cept Duco  and,  at  times,  Urania  Hope.  The  Ameri- 
can girl  came  to  her  pretty  often  and  told  her  about 
Belloni's,  where  the  people  talked  about  Cornelie 
and  Duco  and  commented  on  their  relations.  Ura- 
nia was  glad  to  think  herself  above  that  hotel  gossip, 
but  still  she  wanted  to  warn  Cornelie.  Her  words 
displayed  a  simple  spontaneity  of  friendship  that 
appealed  to  Cornelie.  When  Cornelie,  however, 
asked  after  the  prince,  she  became  silent  and  con- 
fused and  evidently  did  not  wish  to  say  much. 
Then,  after  the  court  ball,  at  which  the  queen  had 
really  worn  the  dress  embroidered  with  seed-pearls, 
Urania  came  and  looked  Cornelie  up  again  and  ad- 
mitted, over  a  cup  of  tea,  that  she  had  that  morning 
promised  to  go  and  see  the  prince  at  his  own  place. 
She  said  this  quite  simply,  as  though  it  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  Cornelie  was  horrified 
and  asked  her  how  she  could  have  promised  such  a 
thing. 

"Why  not?"  Urania  replied.  "What  is  there 
in  it?  I  receive  his  visits.  If  he  asks  me  to  come 
and  see  his  rooms  —  he  lives  in  the  Palazzo  Rus- 
poli  and  wants  to  show  me  his  pictures  and  minia- 
tures and  old  lace  —  why  should  I  refuse  to  go  ? 
Why  should  I  make  a  fuss  about  it?  I  am  above 
any  such  narrow-mindedness.  We  American  girls 

89 


9o  THE  INEVITABLE 

go  about  freely  with  our  men  friends.  And  what 
about  yourself?  You  go  for  walks  with  Mr.  van 
der  Staal,  you  lunch  with  him,  you  go  for  trips  with 
him,  you  go  to  his  studio  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  been  married,"  said  Cornelie.  "  I  am 
responsible  to  no  one.  You  have  your  parents. 
What  you  are  thinking  of  doing  is  imprudent  and 
high-handed.  Tell  me,  does  the  prince  think  of 
.  .  .  marrying  you  ?  " 

"  If  I  become  a  Catholic." 

"And  ...   ?  " 

"  I  think  ...  I  shall.  I  have  written  to  Chi- 
cago," she  said,  hesitatingly. 

She  closed  her  beautiful  eyes  for  a  second  and 
went  pale,  because  the  title  of  princess  and  duchess 
flashed  before  her  sight. 

"  Only  .  .  ."  she  began. 

"Only  what?" 

"  I  sha'n't  have  a  cheerful  life.  The  prince  be- 
longs to  the  Blacks.  They  are  always  in  mourning 
because  of  the  Pope.  They  have  hardly  anything 
in  their  set:  no  dances,  no  parties.  If  we  got  mar- 
ried, I  should  like  him  to  come  to  America  with  me. 
Their  home  in  the  Abruzzi  is  a  lonely,  tumbledown 
castle.  His  father  is  a  very  proud,  stand-offish,  si- 
lent person.  I  have  been  told  so  by  ever  so  many 
people.  What  am  I  to  do,  Cornelie?  I'm  very 
fond  of  Gilio :  his  name  is  Virgilio.  And  then,  you 
know,  the  title  is  an  old  Italian  title:  Principe  di 
Forte-Braccio,  Duca  di  San  Stefano.  .  .  .  But  then, 
you  see,  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  San  Stefano  is  a 
hole.  That's  where  his  papa  lives.  They  sell  wine 
and  live  on  that.  And  olive-oil;  but  they  don't 
make  any  money.  My  father  manufactures  stock- 
inet; but  he  has  grown  rich  on  it.  They  haven't 
many  family-jewels.  I  have  made  enquiries.  .  .  . 
His  cousin,  the  Contessa  di  Rosavilla,  the  lady  in 


THE  INEVITABLE  91 

waiting  to  the  queen,  is  nice  .  .  .  but  we  shouldn't 
see  her  officially.  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  go  any- 
where. It  does  strike  me  as  rather  boring." 

Cornelie  spoke  vehemently,  blazed  out  and  re- 
peated her  phrases :  against  marriage  in  general  and 
now  against  this  marriage  in  particular,  merely  for 
the  sake  of  a  title.  Urania  assented:  it  was  merely 
for  the  title ;  but  then  there  was  Gilio  too,  of  course : 
he  was  so  nice  and  she  was  fond  of  him.  But  Cor- 
nelie didn't  believe  a  word  of  it  and  told  her  so 
straight  out.  Urania  began  to  cry:  she  did  not 
know  what  to  do. 

"  And  when  were  you  to  go  to  the  prince?  " 

"  This  evening." 

11  Don't  go." 

"  No,  no,  you're  right,  I  sha'n't  go." 

"  Do  you  promise  me?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

;'  Don't  go,  Urania." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  go.  You're  a  dear  girl.  You're 
quite  right:  I  won't  go.  I  swear  to  you  I  won't." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  undertaking  which  Urania  had  given  was  so 
vague,  however,  that  Cornelie  felt  uneasy  and  spoke 
of  it  to  Duco  that  evening,  when  she  met  him  at  the 
restaurant.  But  he  was  not  interested  in  Urania, 
in  what  she  did  or  didn't  do;  and  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  indifferently.  Cornelie,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  silent  and  absent-minded  and  did  not  listen 
to  what  he  was  talking  about:  a  side-panel  of  a 
triptych,  undoubtedly  by  Lippo  Memmi,  which  he 
had  discovered  in  a  little  shop  by  the  Tiber;  the 
angel  of  the  Annunciation,  almost  as  beautiful  as  the 
one  in  the  Uffizi,  kneeling  with  the  stir  of  his  last 
flight  yet  about  him,  with  the  lily-stem  in  his  hands. 
But  the  dealer  asked  two  hundred  lire  for  it  and 
he  did  not  want  to  give  more  than  fifty.  And  yet 
the  dealer  had  not  mentioned  Memmi's  name,  did 
not  suspect  that  the  angel  was  by  Memmi. 

Cornelie  was  not  listening;  and  suddenly  she  said: 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise : 

14  What  for?" 

"  To  ask  for  Miss  Hope." 

He  was  dumb  with  amazement  and  continued  to 
look  at  her  open-mouthed. 

"  If  she's  not  there,"  Cornelie  went  on,  "  it's  all 
right.  If  she  is,  if  she  has  gone  after  all,  I'll  ask 
to  speak  to  her  on  urgent  business." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  thinking  her  sudden 
idea  so  strange,  so  eccentric,  thinking  it  so  unneces- 
sary that  her  curve  should  cross  the  curves  of  in- 
significant, indifferent  people,  that  he  did  not  know 

92 


THE  INEVITABLE  93 

how  to  choose  his  words.  Cornelie  glanced  at  her 
watch : 

"  It's  past  half-past  nine.  If  she  does  go,  she 
will  go  about  this  time." 

She  called  the  waiter  and  paid  the  bill.  And  she 
buttoned  her  coat  and  stood  up.  He  followed  after 
her: 

"  Cornelie,"  he  began,  "  isn't  what  you  are  doing 
rather  strange?  It'll  mean  all  sorts  of  worries  for 
you." 

"  If  one  always  objected  to  being  worried,  one 
would  never  do  a  good  action." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  he  moving  irritably  by 
her  side.  They  did  not  speak:  he  thought  her  in- 
tention simply  crazy;  she  thought  him  wanting  in 
chivalry,  not  to  wish  to  protect  Urania.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  pamphlet,  of  her  fellow-women;  and 
she  wanted  to  protect  Urania  from  marriage,  from 
that  prince.  And  they  walked  through  the  Corso 
to  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli.  He  became  nervous,  made 
another  attempt  to  restrain  her;  but  she  had  already 
asked  the  porter: 

"  Is  il  signore  prindpe  at  home?  " 

The  man  looked  at  her  suspiciously: 

"  No,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"  I  believe  he  is.  If  so,  ask  if  Miss  Hope  is  with 
his  excellency.  Miss  Hope  was  not  at  home ;  I  be- 
lieve that  she  was  coming  to  see  the  prince  this  eve- 
ning; and  I  want  to  speak  to  her  urgently  ...  on 
a  matter  which  will  not  brook  delay.  Here :  la  Sig- 
nora  de  Retz.  .  .  ." 

She  handed  him  her  card.  She  spoke  with  the 
greatest  self-possession  and  referred  to  Urania's 
visit  calmly  and  simply,  as  though  it  were  an  every- 
day occurrence  for  American  girls  to  call  on  Italian 
princes  in  the  evening  and  as  though  she  were  per- 
suaded that  the  porter  knew  of  this  custom.  The 


94  THE  INEVITABLE 

man  was  disconcerted  by  her  attitude,  bowed,  took 
the  card  and  went  away.  Cornelie  and  Duco  waited 
in  the  portico. 

He  admired  her  calmness.  He  considered  her 
behaviour  eccentric;  but  she  carried  out  her  eccen- 
tricity with  a  self-assurance  which  once  more  showed 
her  in  a  new  light.  Would  he  never  understand  her, 
would  he  never  grasp  anything  or  know  anything 
for  certain  of  that  changeful  and  intangible  vague- 
ness of  hers?  He  could  never  have  spoken  those 
few  words  to  that  porter  in  just  that  tone !  Where 
had  she  got  that  tact  from,  that  dignified,  serious 
attitude  towards  that  imposing  janitor,  with  his  long 
cane  and  his  cocked  hat?  She  did  it  all  as  easily  as 
she  ordered  their  simple  dinner,  with  a  pleasant  fa- 
miliarity, of  the  waiter  at  their  little  restaurant. 

The  porter  returned: 

"  Miss  Hope  and  his  excellency  beg  that  you  will 
come  upstairs." 

She  looked  at  Duco  with  a   triumphant  smile, 
amused  at  his  confusion: 
'Will  you  come  too?" 

"  Why,  no,"  he  stammered.  "  I  can  wait  for  you 
here." 

She  followed  the  footman  up  the  stairs.  The 
wide  corridor  was  hung  with  family-portraits.  The 
drawing-room  door  was  open  and  the  prince  came 
out  to  meet  her. 

"Please  forgive  me,  prince,"  she  said,  calmly, 
putting  out  her  hand. 

His  eyes  were  small  and  pinched  and  gleamed  like 
carbuncles;  he  was  white  with  rage;  but  he  con- 
trolled himself  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  hand 
which  she  gave  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  went  on.  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  Miss  Hope  on  an  urgent  matter." 


THE  INEVITABLE  95 

She  entered  the  drawing-room;  Urania  was  there, 
blushing  and  embarrassed. 

"You  understand,"  Cornelie  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  that  I  would  not  have  disturbed  you  if  it  had  not 
been  important.  A  question  between  women  .  .  . 
and  still  important!"  she  continued,  jestingly;  and 
the  prince  made  an  insipid,  gallant  reply.  "  May 
I  speak  to  Miss  Hope  alone  for  a  moment?  " 

The  prince  looked  at  her.  He  suspected  un- 
friendliness in  her  and  more,  hostility.  But  he 
bowed,  with  his  insipid  smile,  and  said  that  he  would 
leave  the  ladies  to  themselves.  He  went  to  an- 
other room. 

"What  is  it,  Cornelie?"  asked  Urania,  in  agita- 
tion. 

She  took  Cornelie's  two  hands  and  looked  at  her 
anxiously. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Cornelie,  severely.  "  I  have  no- 
thing to  say  to  you.  Only  I  had  my  suspicions  and 
felt  sure  that  you  would  not  keep  your  promise.  I 
wanted  to  make  certain  if  you  were  here.  Why  did 
you  come?  " 

Urania  began  to  weep. 

"  Don't  cry!  "  whispered  Cornelie,  mercilessly. 
"  For  God's  sake  don't  start  crying.  You've  done 
the  most  thoughtless  thing  imaginable.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  I  have !  "  Urania  confessed,  nervously, 
drying  her  tears. 

"  Then  why  did  you  do  it?  " 

14 1  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Alone,  with  him,  in  the  evening!  A  man  well- 
known  to  be  a  bad  lot." 

"  I  know." 

"  What  do  you  see  in  him?  " 

"  I'm  fond  of  him." 

"  You  only  want  to  marry  him  for  his  title.     For 


96  THE  INEVITABLE 

the  sake  of  his  title  you're  compromising  yourself. 
What  if  he  doesn't  respect  you  this  evening  as  his 
future  wife?  What  if  he  compels  you  to  be  his  mis- 
tress?" 

"Cornelie!     Don't!" 

"  You're  a  child,  a  thoughtless  child.  And  your 
father  lets  you  travel  by  yourself  ...  to  see  '  dear 
old  Italy !  '  You're  an  American  and  broad-minded : 
that's  all  right;  to  travel  through  the  world  pluckily 
on  your  own  is  all  right;  but  you're  not  a  woman, 
you're  a  baby!  " 

"  Cornelie  .  .  .'/ 

"  Come  away  with  me;  say  that  you're  going  with 
me  .  .  .  for  an  urgent  reason.  Or  no  ...  better 
say  nothing.  Stay.  But  I'll  stay  too." 

"  Yes,  you  stay  too." 

"  We'll  send  for  him  now." 

"  Yes." 

Cornelie  rang  the  bell.     A  footman  appeared. 

"  Tell  his  excellency  that  we  are  ready." 

The  man  went  away.  In  a  little  while  the  prince 
entered.  He  had  never  been  treated  like  that  in 
his  own  house.  He  was  seething  with  rage,  but  he 
remained  very  polite  and  outwardly  calm: 

"Is  the  important  matter  settled?"  he  asked, 
with  his  small  eyes  and  his  hypocritical  smile. 

"  Yes ;  thank  you  very  much  for  your  discretion 
in  leaving  us  to  ourselves,"  said  Cornelie.  "  Now 
that  I  have  spoken  to  Miss  Hope,  I  am  greatly  re- 
lieved by  what  she  has  told  me.  Aha,  you  would 
like  to  know  what  we  were  talking  about !  " 

The  prince  raised  his  eyebrows.  Cornelie  had 
spoken  archly,  holding  up  her  finger  as  though  in 
threat,  smiling;  and  the  prince  looked  at  her  and 
saw  that  she  was  handsome.  Not  with  the  striking 
beauty  and  freshness  of  Urania  Hope,  but  with  a 
more  complex  attractiveness,  that  of  a  married 


THE  INEVITABLE  97 

woman,  divorced,  but  very  young;  that  of  a  fin-de- 
siecle  woman,  with  a  faintly  perverse  expression  in 
her  deep  grey  eyes,  moving  under  very  long  lashes; 
that  of  a  woman  of  peculiar  grace  in  the  drooping 
lines  of  her  tired,  lax,  morbid  charm :  a  woman  who 
knew  life;  a  woman  who  saw  through  him:  he  was 
certain  of  it;  a  woman  who,  though  disliking  him, 
nevertheless  spoke  to  him  coquettishly  in  order  to 
attract  him,  to  win  him,  unconsciously,  from  sheer 
womanly  perversity.  And  he  saw  her,  in  her  per- 
verse beauty,  and  admired  her,  sensitive  as  he  was 
to  various  types  of  women.  He  suddenly  thought 
her  handsomer  and  less  commonplace  than  Urania 
and  much  more  distinguished  and  not  so  ingenuously 
susceptible  to  his  title,  a  thing  which  he  thought  so 
silly  in  Urania.  He  was  suddenly  at  his  ease  with 
her,  his  anger  subsided:  he  thought  it  fun  to  have 
two  good-looking  women  with  him  instead  of  one; 
and  he  jested  in  return,  saying  that  he  was  con- 
sumed with  curiosity,  that  he  had  been  listening  at 
the  door  but  had  been  unable  to  catch  a  word, 
alas ! 

Cornelie  laughed  with  coquettish  gaiety  and 
looked  at  her  watch.  She  said  something  about 
going,  but  sat  down  at  the  same  time,  unbuttoned 
her  coat  and  said  to  the  prince : 

"  I  have  heard  so  much  about  your  miniatures. 
Now  that  I  have  the  chance,  may  I  see  them?  " 

The  prince  was  willing,  charmed  by  the  look  in 
her  eyes,  by  her  voice;  he  was  all  fire  and  flame  in 
a  second. 

"  But,"  said  Cornelie,  "  my  escort  is  waiting  out- 
side in  the  portico.  He  would  not  come  up:  he 
doesn't  know  you.  It  is  Mr.  van  der  Staal." 

The  prince  laughed  as  he  glanced  at  her.  He 
knew  of  the  gossip  at  Belloni's.  He  did  not  for  a 
moment  doubt  the  existence  of  a  liaison  between  Van 


98  THE  INEVITABLE 

der  Staal  and  Signora  de  Retz.  He  knew  that  they 
did  not  care  for  the  proprieties.  And  he  began  to 
like  Cornelie  very  much. 

"  But  I  will  send  to  Mr.  van  der  Staal  at  once  to 
ask  him  to  come  up." 

"  He  is  waiting  in  the  portico,"  said  Cornelie. 
"  He  won't  like  to.  . 

"  I'll  go  myself,"  said  the  prince,  with  obliging 
vivacity. 

He  left  the  room.  The  ladies  stayed  behind. 
Cornelie  took  off  her  coat,  but  kept  on  her  hat,  be- 
cause her  hair  was  sure  to  be  untidy.  She  looked 
into  the  glass: 

"Have  you  your  powder  on  you?"  she  asked 
Urania. 

Urania  took  her  little  ivory  powder-box  from  her 
bag  and  handed  it  to  Cornelie.  And,  while  Cor- 
nelie powdered  her  face,  Urania  looked  at  her  friend 
and  did  not  understand.  She  remembered  the  im- 
pression of  seriousness  which  Cornelie  had  made  on 
her  at  their  first  meeting:  studying  Rome;  after- 
wards, writing  a  pamphlet  on  the  woman  question 
and  the  position  of  divorced  women.  Then  her 
warnings  against  marriage  and  the  prince.  And 
now  she  suddenly  saw  her  as  a  most  attractive,  fri- 
volous woman,  irresistibly  charming,  even  more  be- 
witching than  actually  beautiful,  full  of  coquetry  in 
the  depths  of  her  grey  eyes,  which  glanced  up  and 
down  under  the  curling  lashes,  simply  dressed  in  a 
dark-silk  blouse  and  a  cloth  skirt,  but  with  so  much 
distinction  and  so  much  coquetry,  with  so  much  dig- 
nity and  yet  with  a  touch  of  yielding  winsomeness, 
that  she  hardly  knew  her. 

But  the  prince  had  returned,  bringing  Duco  with 
him.  Duco  was  nervously  reluctant,  not  knowing 
what  had  happened,  not  grasping  how  Cornelie  had 


THE  INEVITABLE  99 

acted.  He  saw  her  sitting  quietly,  smiling;  and 
she  at  once  explained  that  the  prince  was  going  to 
show  her  his  miniatures. 

Duco  declared  flatly  that  he  did  not  care  for  minia- 
tures. The  prince  suspected  from  his  irritable  tone 
that  he  was  jealous.  And  this  suspicion  incited  the 
prince  to  pay  attentions  to  Cornelie.  And  he  be- 
haved as  though  he  were  showing  his  miniatures  only 
to  her,  as  though  he  were  showing  her  his  old  lace. 
She  admired  the  lace  in  particular  and  rolled  it  be- 
tween her  delicate  fingers.  She  asked  him  to  tell 
her  about  his  grandmothers,  who  used  to  wear  the 
lace:  had  they  had  any  adventures?  He  told  her 
one,  which  made  her  laugh  very  much ;  then  he  told 
an  anecdote  or  two,  vivaciously,  flaming  up  under 
her  glance,  and  she  laughed.  Amid  the  atmosphere 
of  that  big  drawing-room,  his  study  —  it  contained 
his  writing-table  —  with  the  candles  lighted  and 
flowers  everywhere  for  Urania,  a  certain  perverse 
gaiety  began  to  reign,  an  airy  joie  de  vivre.  But 
only  between  Cornelie  and  the  prince.  Urania  had 
fallen  silent;  and  Duco  did  not  speak  a  word.  Cor- 
nelie was  a  revelation  to  him  also.  He  had  never 
seen  her  like  that:  not  at  the  dance  on  Christmas 
Day,  nor  at  the  table-d'hote,  nor  in  his  studio,  nor 
on  their  excursions,  nor  in  their  restaurant.  Was 
she  a  woman,  or  was  she  ten  women? 

And  he  confessed  to  himself  that  he  loved  her, 
that  he  loved  her  more  at  each  revelation,  more  with 
each  woman  that  he  saw  in  her,  like  a  new  facet  which 
she  made  to  gleam  and  glitter.  But  he  could  not 
speak,  could  not  join  in  their  pleasantry,  feeling 
strange  in  that  atmosphere,  strange  in  that  atmo- 
sphere of  buoyant  animal  spirits,  caused  by  nothing 
but  aimless  words,  as  though  the  French  and  Italian 
which  they  mixed  up  together  were  dropping  so 


ioo  THE  INEVITABLE 

many  pearls,  as  though  their  jests  shone  like  so  much 
tinsel,  as  though  their  equivocal  playing  upon  words 
had  the  iridescence  of  a  rainbow.  .  .  . 

The  prince  regretted  that  his  tea  was  no  longer 
fit  to  drink,  but  he  rang  for  some  champagne.  He 
thought  that  his  plans  had  partly  failed  that  eve- 
ning, for,  fearing  to  lose  Urania,  he  had  intended 
to  compel  her;  seeing  her  hesitation,  he  had  resolved 
to  force  the  irreparable.  But  his  nature  was  so  de- 
void of  seriousness  —  he  was  marrying  to  please  his 
father  and  the  Marchesa  Belloni  rather  than  him- 
self; he  enjoyed  his  life  quite  as  well  with  a  load  of 
debts  and  no  wife  as  he  could  hope  to  do  with  a 
wife  and  millions  of  money  —  that  he  began  to  con- 
sider the  failure  of  his  plans  highly  amusing  and 
had  to  laugh  within  himself  when  he  thought  of  his 
father,  of  his  aunt,  the  marchesa,  and  of  their 
machinations,  which  had  no  effect  on ,  Urania,  be- 
cause a  pretty,  flirtatious  woman  had  objected. 

"Why  did  she  object?"  he  wondered,  as  he 
poured  out  the  foaming  Monopole,  spilling  it  over 
the  glasses.  "  Why  does  she  put  herself  between 
me  and  the  American  stocking-seller?  Is  she  her- 
self in  Italy  hunting  for  a  title?  " 

But  he  did  not  care:  he  thought  the  intruder 
charming,  pretty,  very  pretty,  coquettish,  seductive, 
bewitching.  He  fussed  around  her,  neglecting  Ura- 
nia, almost  forgetting  to  fill  her  glass.  And,  when 
it  grew  late  and  Cornelie  at  last  rose  to  go  and 
drew  Urania's  arm  through  hers  and  looked  at  the 
prince  with  a  glance  of  triumph  which  they  mutually 
understood,  he  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"  I  am  ever  so  grateful  to  you  for  visiting  me  in 
my  humble  abode.  You  have  defeated  me:  I  ac- 
knowledge myself  defeated." 

The  words  appeared  to  be  merely  an  allusion  to 
their  jesting  discussion  about  nothing;  but,  uttered 


THE  INEVITABLE  101 

between  him  and  her,  between  the  prince  and  Cor- 
nelie,  they  sounded  full  of  meaning;  and  he  saw 
the  smile  of  victory  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  remained  behind  in  his  room  and  poured  him- 
self out  what  remained  of  the  champagne.  And, 
as  he  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips,  he  said,  aloud: 

"  O,  che  occhif  Che  belli  occhif  .  .  .  Che  belli 
occhi!  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Next  day,  when  Duco  met  Cornelie  at  the  osteria, 
she  was  very  cheerful  and  excited.  She  told  him 
that  she  had  already  received  a  reply  from  the  wo- 
man's paper  to  which  she  had  sent  her  pamphlet  the 
week  before  and  that  her  work  was  not  only  ac- 
cepted but  would  be  paid  for.  She  was  so  proud  at 
earning  money  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  as 
merry  as  a  little  child.  She  did  not  speak  of  the 
previous  evening,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Urania, 
but  felt  an  exuberant  need  to  talk. 

She  formed  all  sorts  of  great  plans:  to  travel 
about  as  a  journalist,  to  fling  herself  into  the  move- 
ment of  the  great  cities,  to  pursue  every  reality,  to 
have  herself  sent  by  some  paper  as  a  delegate  to 
congresses  and  festivals.  The  few  guilders  which 
she  was  earning  already  made  her  intoxicated  with 
zeal;  and  she  would  like  to  make  a  lot  of  money  and 
do  a  great  deal  and  consider  no  fatigue.  He 
thought  her  simply  adorable :  in  the  half  light  of  the 
osteria,  as  she  sat  at  the  little  table  eating  her  groc- 
chi,  with  in  front  of  her  the  mezzcfiasco  of  pale- 
yellow  wine  of  the  country,  her  usual  languor  ac- 
quired a  new  vivacity  which  astonished  him;  her  out- 
line, half-dark  on  the  left,  lighted  on  the  right  by 
the  sunshine  in  the  street,  acquired  a  modern  grace 
of  drawing  which  reminded  him  of  the  French 
draughtsmen :  the  rather  pale  face  with  the  delicate 
features,  lit  up  by  her  smile,  faintly  indicated  under 
the  sailor  hat,  which  slanted  over  her  eyes;  the  hair, 
touched  with  gold,  or  a  dark  light-brown ;  the  white 
veil  raised  into  a  rumpled  mist  above;  her  figure, 

102 


THE  INEVITABLE  103 

slender  and  gracious  in  the  simple,  unbuttoned  coat, 
with  a  bunch  of  violets  in  her  blouse. 

The  manner  in  which  she  helped  herself  to  wine, 
in  which  she  addressed  the  cameriere  —  the  only 
one,  who  knew  them  well,  from  seeing  them  daily  — 
with  a  pleasant  familiarity;  the  vivacity  replacing 
her  languor;  her  great  plans,  her  gay  phrases:  all 
this  seemed  to  shine  upon  him,  unconstrained  and  yet 
distinguished,  free  and  yet  womanly  and,  above  all, 
easy,  as  she  was  at  her  ease  everywhere,  with  an 
assimilative  tact  which  for  him  constituted  a  peculiar 
harmony.  He  thought  of  the  evening  before,  but 
she  did  not  speak  of  it.  He  thought  of  fehat  revela- 
tion of  her  coquetry,  but  she  was  not  thinking  of 
coquetry.  She  was  never  coquettish  with  him.  She 
looked  up  to  him,  regarded  him  as  clever  and  excep- 
tional, though  not  belonging  to  his  time;  she  re- 
spected him  for  the  things  whkh  he  said  and 
thought;  and  she  was  as  matter  of  fact  towards  him 
as  one  chum  towards  another,  who  happened  to  be 
older  and  cleverer.  She  felt  for  him  a  sincere 
friendship,  an  indescribable  something  that  implied 
the  need  of  being  together,  of  living  together,  as 
though  the  lines  of  their  two  lives  should  form  one 
line.  It  was  not  a  sisterly  feeling  and  it  was  not 
passion  and  to  her  mind  it  was  not  love;  but  it 
was  a  great  sense  of  respectful  tenderness,  of  long- 
ing admiration  and  of  affectionate  delight  at  having 
met  him.  If  she  never  saw  him  again,  she  would 
miss  him  as  she  would  never  miss  any  one  in  her  life. 
And  that  he  took  no  interest  in  modern  questions  did 
not  lower  him  in  the  eyes  of  this  young  modern 
Amazon,  who  was  about  to  wave  her  first  banner. 
It  might  vex  her  for  an  instant,  but  it  did  not  carry 
weight  in  her  estimation  of  him.  And  he  saw  that, 
with  him,  she  was  simply  affectionate,  without 
coquetry.  Yet  he  would  never  forget  what  she  had 


104  THE  INEVITABLE 

been  like  yesterday,  with  the  prince.  He  had  felt 
jealousy  and  noticed  it  in  Urania  also.  But  she  her- 
self had  acted  so  spontaneously  in  harmony  with  her 
nature  that  she  no  longer  thought  of  that  evening, 
of  the  prince,  of  Urania,  of  her  own  coquettishness 
or  of  any  possible  jealousy  on  their  side. 

He  paid  the  bill  —  it  was  his  turn  —  and  she  gaily 
took  his  arm  and  said  that  she  had  a  surprise  in 
store  for  him,  with  which  he  would  be  very  pleased. 
She  wanted  to  give  him  something,  a  handsome,  a 
very  handsome  keepsake.  She  wanted  to  spend  on 
it  the  money  she  was  going  to  receive  for  her  article. 
But  she  hadn't  got  it  yet  ...  as  though  that  mat- 
tered! It  would  come  in  due  time.  And  she 
wanted  to  give  him  his  present  now. 

He  laughed  and  asked  what  it  could  be.  She 
hailed  a  carriage  and  whispered  an  address  to  the 
driver.  Duco  did  not  hear.  What  could  it  be? 
But  she  refused  to  tell  him  yet. 

The  vetturino  drove  them  through  the  Borgo  to 
the  Tiber  and  stopped  outside  a  dark  little  old- 
curiosity-shop,  where  the  wares  lay  heaped  up  right 
out  into  the  street. 

"  Cornelie !  "  Duco  exclaimed,  guessing. 

"  Your  Lippo  Memmi  angel.  I'm  getting  it  for 
you.  Not  a  word  1  " 

The  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  They  entered  the 
shop. 

"  Ask  him  how  much  he  wants  for  it." 

He  was  too  much  moved  to  speak;  and  Cornelie 
had  to  ask  the  price  and  bargain.  She  did  not  bar- 
gain long:  she  bought  the  panel  for  a  hundred  and 
twenty  lire.  She  herself  carried  it  to  the  victoria. 

And  they  drove  back  to  his  studio.  They  carried 
the  angel  up  the  stairs  together,  as  though  they  were 
bearing  an  unsullied  happiness  into  his  home.  In 
the  studio  they  placed  the  angel  on  a  chair.  Of  3 


THE  INEVITABLE  105 

noble  aspect,  of  a  somewhat  Mongolian  type,  with 
long,  almond-shaped  eyes,  the  angel  had  just  knelt 
down  in  the  last  stir  of  his  flight;  and  the  gold  scarf 
of  his  gold-and-purple  cloak  fluttered  in  the  air  while 
his  long  wings  quivered  straight  above  him.  Duco 
stared  at  his  Memmi,  filled  with  a  two-fold  emotion, 
because  of  the  angel  and  because  of  her. 

And  with  a  natural  gesture  he  spread  out  his 
arms: 

"  May  I  thank  you,  Cornelie?  " 

And  he  embraced  her;  and  she  returned  his  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

When  she  came  home  she  found  the  prince's  card. 
It  was  an  ordinary  civility  after  yesterday  evening, 
her  unexpected  visit  to  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli,  and  she 
did  not  give  it  a  second  thought.  She  was  in  a 
pleasant  frame  of  mind,  pleased  with  herself,  glad 
that  her  work  would  appear  first  as  an  article  in  Het 
Recht  der  Frouw  * —  she  would  publish  it  as  a 
pamphlet  afterwards  —  and  glad  that  she  had  made 
Duco  happy  with  the  Memmi.  She  changed  into 
her  tea-gown  and  sat  down  by  the  fire  in  her  musing 
attitude  and  thought  of  how  she  could  carry  out  her 
great  plans.  To  whom  ought  she  to  apply?  There 
was  an  International  Women's  Congress  sitting  in 
London;  and  Het  Recht  der  Frouw  had  sent  her  a 
prospectus.  She  turned  over  the  pages.  Different 
feminist  leaders  were  to  speak;  there  would  be  num- 
bers pf  social  questions  discussed:  the  psychology  of 
the  child;  the  responsibility  of  the  parents;  the  influ- 
ence on  domestic  life  of  women's  admission  to  all  the 
professions;  women  in  art,  women  in  medicine;  the 
fashionable  woman;  the  woman  at  home,  on  the 
stage;  marriage-  and  divorce-laws. 

In  addition  the  prospectus  gave  concise  biograph- 
ies of  the  speakers,  with  their  portraits.  There 
were  American,  Russian,  English,  Swedish,  Danish 
women;  nearly  every  nationality  was  represented. 
There  were  old  women  and  young  women;  some 
pretty,  some  ugly;  some  masculine,  some  womanly; 
some  hard  and  energetic,  with  sexless  boys'  faces; 
one  or  two  only  were  elegant,  with  low-cut  dresses 
and  waved  hair.  It  was  not  easy  to  divide  them 

i  Woman's  Rights. 

106 


THE  INEVITABLE  107 

into  groups.  What  impulse  in  their  lives  had 
prompted  them  to  join  in  the  struggle  for  women's 
rights?  In  some,  no  doubt,  inclination,  nature;  in 
an  occasional  case,  vocation;  in  another,  the  desire 
to  be  in  the  fashion.  And,  in  her  own  case,  what 
was  the  impulse?  ;  .  .  She  dropped  the  prospectus 
in  her  lap  and  stared  into  the  fire  and  reflected. 
Her  drawing-room  education  passed  before  her  once 
more,  followed  by  her  marriage,  by  her  divorce.  .  .  . 
What  was  the  impulse?  What  was  the  induce- 
ment? .  .  .  She  had  come  to  it  gradually,  to  go 
abroad,  to  extend  her  sphere  of  vision,  to  reflect, 
to  learn  about  art,  about  the  modern  life  of  women. 
She  had  glided  gradually  along  the  line  of  her  life,, 
with  no  great  effort  of  will  or  striving,  without  even 
thinking  much  or  feeling  much.  .  .  .  She  glanced 
into  herself,  as  though  she  were  reading  a  modern 
novel,  the  psychology  of  a  woman.  Sometimes  she 
seemed  to  will  things,  to  wish  to  strive,  as  just  nowr 
to  pursue  her  great  plans.  Sometimes  she  would  sit 
thinking,  as  she  often  did  in  these  days,  beside  her 
cosy  fire.  Sometimes  she  felt,  as  she  now  did,  for 
Duco.  But  mostly  her  life  had  been  a  gradual 
gliding  along  the  line  which  she  had  to  follow,  urged 
by  the  gentle  pressure  of  the  finger  of  fate.  .  .  . 
For  a  moment  she  saw  it  clearly.  There  was  a 
great  sincerity  in  her:  she  never  posed  either  to  her- 
self or  to  others.  There  were  contradictions  in  her, 
but  she  recognized  them  all,  in  so  far  as  she  could 
see  herself.  But  the  open  landscape  of  her  soul 
became  clear  to  her  at  that  moment.  She  saw 
the  complexity  of  her  being  gleam  with  its  many 
facets.  .  .  .  She  had  taken  to  writing,  out  of  im- 
pulse and  intuition;  but  was  her  writing  any  good? 
A  doubt  rose  in  her  mind.  A  copy  of  the  code  lay 
on  her  table,  a  survival  of  the  days  of  her  divorce; 
but  had  she  understood  the  law  correctly?  Her 


io8  THE  INEVITABLE 

article  was  accepted;  but  was  the  judgement  of  the 
editress  to  be  trusted?  As  her  eyes  wandered  once 
again  over  those  women's  portraits  and  biographies, 
she  became  afraid  that  her  work  would  not  be  good, 
would  be  too  superficial,  and  that  her  ideas  were  not 
directed  by  study  and  knowledge.  But  she  could 
also  imagine  her  own  photograph  appearing  in  that 
prospectus,  with  her  name  under  it  and  a  brief 
comment :  writer  of  The  Social  Position  of  Divorced 
Women,  with  the  name  of  the  paper,  the  date  and 
so  on.  And  she  smiled:  how  highly  convincing  it 
sounded ! 

But  how  difficult  it  was  to  study,  to  work  and  un- 
derstand and  act  and  move  in  the  modern  move- 
ment of  life !  She  was  now  in  Rome :  she  would 
have  liked  to  be  in  London.  But  it  did  not  suit  her 
at  the  moment  to  make  the  journey.  She  had  felt 
rich  when  she  bought  Duco's  Memmi,  thinking  of 
the  payment  for  her  article;  and  now  she  felt  poor. 
She  would  much  have  liked  to  go  to  London.  But 
then  she  would  have  missed  Duco.  And  the  con- 
gress lasted  only  a  week.  She  was  pretty  well  at 
home  here  now,  was  beginning  to  love  Rome,  her 
rooms,  the  Colosseum  lying  yonder  like  a  dark  oval, 
like  a  sombre  wing  at  the  end  of  the  city,  with  the 
hazy-blue  mountains  behind  it. 

Then  the  prince  came  into  her  mind  and  for  the 
first  time  she  thought  of  yesterday,  saw  that  evening 
again,  an  evening  of  jesting  and  champagne:  Duco 
silent  and  sulky,  Urania  depressed  and  the  prince 
small,  lively,  slender,  roused  from  his  slackness  as 
an  aristocratic  man-about-town  and  with  his  narrow 
carbuncle  eyes.  She  thought  him  really  pleasant; 
once  in  a  way  she  liked  that  atmosphere  of  coquetry 
and  flirtation;  and  the  prince  had  understood  her. 
She  had  saved  Urania,  she  was  sure  of  that;  and 
she  felt  the  content  of  her  good  action.  .  .  . 


THE  INEVITABLE  109 

She  was  too  lazy  to  dress  and  go  to  the  restaurant. 
She  was  not  very  hungry  and  would  stay  at  home 
and  sup  on  what  was  in  her  cupboard:  a  couple  of 
eggs,  bread,  some  fruit.  But  she  remembered  Duco 
and  that  he  would  certainly  be  waiting  for  her  at 
their  little  table  and  she  wrote  him  a  note  and  sent 
it  by  the  hall-porter's  boy.  .  .  . 

Duco  was  just  coming  down,  on  his  way  out  to 
the  restaurant,  when  he  met  the  little  fellow  on  the 
stairs.  He  read  the  note  and  felt  as  if  he  was 
suffering  a  grievous  disappointment.  He  felt  small 
and  unhappy,  like  a  child.  And  he  went  back  to  his 
studio,  lit  a  single  lamp,  threw  himself  on  a  broad 
couch  and  lay  staring  in  the  dusk  at  Memmi's  angel, 
who,  still  standing  on  the  chair,  glimmered  vaguely 
gold  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  sweet  as  comfort, 
with  his  gesture  of  annunciation,  as  though  he  sought 
to  announce  all  the  mystery  that  was  about  to  be 
fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  few  days  later,  Cornelie  was  expecting  a  visit 
from  the  prince,  who  had  asked  her  for  an  appoint- 
ment. She  was  sitting  at  her  writing-table,  correct- 
ing proofs  of  her  article.  A  lamp  on  the  writing- 
table  cast  a  soft  glow  over  her  through  a  yellow  silk 
shade;  and  she  wore  her  tea-gown  of  white  crepe  de 
Chine,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  at  her  breast.  An- 
other lamp,  on  a  pedestal,  cast  a  second  gleam  from 
a  corner;  and  the  room  flickered  in  cosy  intimacy 
with  the  third  light  from  the  log-fire,  falling  over 
water-colours  by  Duco,  sketches  and  photographs, 
white  anenomes  in  vases,  violets  everywhere  and  one 
tall  palm.  The  writing-table  was  littered  with  books 
and  printed  sheets,  bearing  witness  to  her  work. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  and,  at  her 
"  Come  in,"  the  prince  entered.  She  remained 
seated  for  a  moment,  laid  down  her  pen  and  rose. 
She  went  up  to  him  with  a  smile  and  held  out  her 
hand.  He  kissed  it.  He  was  very  smartly  dressed 
in  a  frock-coat,  with  a  silk  hat  and  pale-grey  gloves; 
he  wore  a  pearl  pin  in  his  tie.  They  sat  down  by 
the  fire  and  he  paid  her  compliments  in  quick  suc- 
cession, on  her  sitting-room,  her  dress  and  her  eyes. 
She  made  a  jesting  reply;  and  he  asked  if  he  was 
disturbing  her: 

"  Perhaps  you  were  writing  an  interesting  letter 
to  some  one  near  your  heart?  " 

u  No,  I  was  revising  some  proofs." 

"Proofs?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  write?" 

no 


THE  INEVITABLE  in 

"  I  have  just  begun  to." 

"A  story?" 

"  No,  an  article." 

11  An  article  ?     What  about  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  long  title.  He  looked  at  her 
open-mouthed.  She  laughed  gaily: 

"  You  would  never  have  believed  it,  would  you?  " 

"  Santa  Maria !  "  he  murmured  in  surprise,  un- 
accustomed in  his  own  world  to  "  modern  "  women, 
taking  part  in  a  feminist  movement.  "Dutch?" 
1  Yes,  Dutch." 

"  Write  in  French  next  time :  then  I  can  read  it." 

She  laughed  and  gave  her  promise,  poured  him  out 
a  cup  of  tea,  handed  the  chocolates.  He  nibbled  at 
them: 

"Are  ybu  so  serious?  Have  you  always  been? 
You  were  not  serious  the  other  day." 

"  Sometimes  I  am  very  serious." 

"  So  am  I." 

"  I  gathered  that.  If  I  had  not  come  that  time, 
you  might  have  become  very  serious." 

He  gave  a  fatuous  laugh  and  looked  at  her  know- 
ingly : 

"  You  are  a  wonderful  woman!"  he  said. 
"  Very  interesting  and  very  clever.  What  you  want 
to  happen  happens." 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Sometimes  what  I  want  also.  Sometimes  I 
also  am  very  clever.  When  I  want  a  thing.  But 
generally  I  don't  want  it." 

"  You  did  the  other  day." 

He  laughed: 

"  Yes !  You  were  cleverer  than  I  then.  To- 
morrow perhaps  I  shall  be  cleverer  than  you." 

"W7ho  knows!" 

They  both  laughed.  He  nibbled  the  chocolates 
in  the  dish,  one  after  the  other,  and  asked  if  he 


ii2  THE  INEVITABLE 

might  have  a  glass  of  port  instead  of  tea.  She 
poured  him  out  a  glass. 

"  May  I  give  you  something?  " 

"What?" 

"  A  souvenir  of  our  first  acquaintance." 

"  It  is  very  charming  of  you.     What  is  it  to  be?  " 

He  took  something  wrapped  in  tissue-paper  from 
his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  opened  the 
little  parcel  and  saw  a  strip  of  old  Venetian  lace, 
worked  in  the  shape  of  a  flounce,  for  a  low  bodice. 

"  Do  accept  it,"  he  besought  her.  "  It  is  a  lovely 
piece.  It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  all  her  coquetry  in  her 
eyes,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  see  through  him. 

"  You  must  wear  it  like  this." 

He  stood  up,  took  the  lace  and  draped  it  over  her 
white  tea-gown  from  shoulder  to  shoulder.  His 
fingers  fumbled  with  the  folds,  his  lips  just  touched 
her  hair. 

She  thanked  him  for  his  gift.  He  sat  down 
again : 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  will  accept  it." 

"  Have  you  given  Miss  Hope  something  too  ?  " 

He  laughed,  with  his  little  laugh  of  conquest: 

"  Patterns  are  all  she  wants,  patterns  of  the 
queen's  ball-dresses.  I  wouldn't  dare  to  give  you 
patterns.  To  you  I  give  old  lace." 

u  But  you  nearly  ruined  your  career  for  the  sake 
of  that  pattern?" 

"  Oh,  well!"  he  laughed. 

"Which  career?" 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  he  said,  evasively.  "  Tell  me, 
what  do  you  advise  me  to  do?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Shall  I  marry  her?" 

"  I  am  against  all  marriage,  between  cultivated 
people." 


THE  INEVITABLE  113 

She  wanted  to  repeat  some  of  her  phrases,  but 
thought  to  herself,  why?  He  would  not  understand 
them.  He  looked  at  her  profoundly,  with  his  car- 
buncle eyes: 

"  So  you  are  in  favour  of  free  love?  " 

"  Sometimes.  Not  always.  Between  cultivated 
people." 

He  was  certain  now,  had  any  doubt  still  lingered 
in  his  mind,  that  a  liaison  existed  between  her  and 
Van  der  Staal. 

"  And  do  you  think  me  ...  cultivated?  " 

She  laughed  provocatively,  with  a  touch  of  scorn 
in  her  voice : 

"Listen.     Shall  I  speak  to  you  seriously?" 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

"  I  consider  neither  you  nor  Miss  Hope  suited  for 
free  love." 

"  So  I  am  not  cultivated?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  it  in  the  sense  of  being  civilized. 
I  mean  modern  culture." 

"  So  I  am  not  modern." 

"  No,"  she  said,  slightly  irritated. 

'  Teach  me  to  be  modern." 

She  gave  a  nervous  laugh : 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  talk  like  this !  You  want  to 
know  my  advice.  I  advise  you  not  to  marry  Ura- 
nia." 

'Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  would  both  of  you  have  a  wretched 
life.  She  is  a  dear  little  American  parvenue  .  .  ." 

"  I  am  offering  her  what  I  possess;  she  is  offering 
me  what  she  possesses.  .  .  ." 

He  nibbled  at  the  chocolates.  She. shrugged  her 
shoulders : 

'  Then  marry  her,"  she  said,  with  indifference. 

'  Tell  me  that  you  don't  want  me  to  and  I  won't." 

"  And  your  father?     And  the  marchesa?  " 


ii4  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  What  do  you  know  about  them?  " 

"Oh  .  .  .  everything  and  nothing!  " 

"  You  are  a  demon !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  An  angel 
and  a  demon!  Tell  me,  what  do  you  know  about 
my  father  and  the  marchesa?  " 

"  For  how  much  are  you  selling  yourself  to  Ura- 
nia? For  not  less  than  ten  millions?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"  But  the  marchesa  thinks  five  enough.  And  a 
very  handsome  sum  it  is :  five  millions.  Which  is  it, 
dollars  or  lire?  " 

He  clapped  his  hands  together: 

"  You  are  a  devil !  "  he  cried.  "  You  are  an  an- 
gel and  a  devil!  How  do  you  know?  How  do 
you  know?  Do  you  know  everything?  " 

She  flung  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed: 

"  Everything." 

"But  how?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head  tantali- 
zingly. 

"  Tell  me." 

"  No.     It's  my  secret." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  ought  not  to  sell  my- 
self? " 

"  I  dare  not  advise  you  as  regards  your  own  in- 
terest." 

"  And  as  regards  Urania?  " 

"  I  advise  her  not  to  do  it." 

"  Have  you  done  so  already?  " 

"  Once  in  a  way." 

"  So  you  are  my  enemy?  "  he  exclaimed,  angrily. 

"  No,"  she  said,  gently,  wishing  to  conciliate  him. 
"  I  am  a  friend." 

"  A  friend?     To  what  length?  " 

"  To  the  length  to  which  /  wish  ft>  go." 

"  Not  the  length  to  which  /  wish?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  never !  " 


THE  INEVITABLE  115- 

"  But  perhaps  we  both  wish  to  go  to  the  same 
length?" 

He  had  stood  up,  with  his  blood  on  fire.  She  re- 
mained seated  calmly,  almost  languidly,  with  her 
head  thrown  back.  She  did  not  reply.  He  fell  on 
his  knees,  seized  her  hand  and  was  kissing  it  before 
she  could  prevent  him: 

"Oh,  angel,  angel.  Oh,  demon!"  he  muttered, 
between  his  kisses. 

She  now  withdrew  her  hand,  pushed  him  away 
from  her  gently  and  said: 

"  How  quick  an  Italian  is  with  his  kisses !  " 

She  laughed  at  him.     He  rose  from  his  knees : 

"  Teach  me  what  Dutchwomen  are  like,  though 
they  are  slower  than  we." 

She  pointed  to  his  chair,  with  an  imperious  ges- 
ture : 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  a  typical 
Dutchwoman.  If  I  were,  I  should  not  have  come 
to  Rome.  I  pride  myself  on  being  a  cosmopolitan. 
But  we  were  not  discussing  that,  we  were  speaking 
of  Urania.  Are  you  thinking  seriously  of  marry- 
ing her?  " 

"What  can  I  do,  if  you  thwart  me?  Why  not 
be  on  my  side,  like  a  dear  friend?  " 

She  hesitated.  Neither  of  these  two,  Urania  or 
he,  was  ripe  for  her  ideas.  She  despised  them  both. 
Very  well,  let  them  get  married:  he  in  order  to  be 
rich ;  she  to  become  a  princess  and  duchess. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  bending  towards  him. 
'  You  want  to  marry  her  for  the  sake  of  her  mil- 
lions. But  your  marriage  will  be  unhappy  from  the 
beginning.  She  is  a  frivolous  little  thing;  she  will 
want  to  cut  a  dash  .  .  .  and  you  belong  to  the 
Blacks." 

"We  can  live  at  Nice:  then  she  can  do  as  she 
pleases.  We  will  come  to  Rome  now  and  again, 


n6  THE  INEVITABLE 

go  to  San  Stefano  now  and  again.  And,  as  for  un- 
happiness,"  he  continued,  pulling  a  tragic  face, 
"  what  do  I  care?  I  am  not  happy  as  it  is.  I  shall 
try  to  make  Urania  happy.  But  my  heart  .  .  . 
will  be  elsewhere." 

'Where?" 

;'  With  the  feminist  movement." 

She  laughed: 

"Well,  shall  I  be  nice  to  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  promise  to  help  you?  " 

What  did  she  care,  when  all  was  said? 

"  Oh,  angel,  demon !  "  he  cried.  He  nibbled  at 
a  chocolate.  "  And  what  does  Mr.  van  der  Staal 
think  of  it?  "  he  asked,  mischievously. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows: 

"  He  doesn't  think  about  it.  He  thinks  only  of 
his  art." 

"And  of  you." 

She  looked  at  him  and  bowed  her  head  in  queenly 
assent : 

11  And  of  me." 

"  You  often  dine  with  him." 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  and  dine  with  me  one  day." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"  To-morrow  evening?     And  where?  " 

"  Wherever  you  like." 

"In  the  Grand-Hotel?" 

"  Ask  Urania  to  come  too." 

"  Why  not  you  and  I  alone?  " 

"  I  think  it  better  that  you  should  invite  your 
future  wife.  I  will  chaperon  her." 

'  You  are  right.  You  are  quite  right.  And 
will  you  ask  Mr.  van  der  Staal  also  to  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  his  company?  " 

"  I  will." 


THE  INEVITABLE  117 

"  Until  to-morrow  then,  at  half-past  eight?  " 

"  Until  half-past  eight  to-morrow." 

He  rose  to  take  his  leave: 

"  Propriety  demands  that  I  should  go,"  he  said. 
"  Really  I  should  prefer  to  stay." 

"  Well,  then  stay  ...  or  stay  another  time,  if 
you  have  to  go  now." 

"  You  are  so  cold." 

"  And  you  don't  think  enough  of  Urania." 

"  I  think  of  the  feminist  movement." 

He  sat  down. 

**  I'm  afraid  you  must  go,"  she  said,  laughing  with 
her  eyes.  "  I  have  to  dress  ...  to  go  and  dine 
with  Mr.  van  der  Staal." 

He  kissed  her  hand: 

"  You  are  an  angel  and  a  demon.  You  know 
everything.  You  can  do  anything.  You  are  the 
most  interesting  woman  I  ever  met." 

"  Because  I  correct  proofs." 

"  Because  you  are  what  you  are." 

And,  very  seriously,  still  holding  her  hand,  he 
said,  almost  threateningly: 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget  you." 

And  he  went  away.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone, 
she  opened  all  her  windows.  She  realized,  it  was 
true,  that  she  was  something  of  a  coquette,  but  that 
lay  in  her  nature:  she  was  like  that  of  herself,  t*o 
some  men.  Certainly  not  to  all.  Never  to  Duco. 
Never  to  men  whom  she  respected.  Whereas  she 
despised  that  little  prince,  with  his  blazing  eyes  and 
his  habit  of  kissing  people.  .  .  .  But  he  served  to 
amuse  her.  .  .  . 

And  she  dressed  and  went  out  and  reached  the 
restaurant  long  after  the  appointed  hour,  found 
Duco  waiting  for  her  at  their  little  table,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  at  once  told  him  that  the 
prince  had  detained  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Duco  had  at  first  wished  to  decline  the  invitation, 
but  Cornelie  said  that  she  would  think  it  pleasanter 
if  he  came.  And  it  was  an  exquisite  dinner  in  the 
restaurant  of  the  Grand-Hotel  and  Cornelie  had  en- 
joyed herself  exceedingly  and  looked  most  charm- 
ing in  an  old  yellow  ball-dress,  dating  back  to  the 
first  days  of  her  marriage,  which  she  had  altered 
quickly  here  and  there  and  draped  with  the  prince's 
old  lace.  Urania  had  looked  very  handsome,  with 
her  clear,  fresh  complexion,  her  shining  eyes  and 
gleaming  teeth,  clad  in  a  close-fitting  frock  in  the 
latest  fashion,  blue-black  spangles  on  black  tulle,  as 
though  she  were  moulded  in  a  cuirass:  the  prince 
said,  a  siren  with  a  mermaid's  tail.  And  the  people 
at  the  other  tables  had  stared  across  at  theirs,  for 
everybody  knew  Virgilio  di  Forte-Braccio ;  every- 
body knew  that  he  was  going  to  marry  a  rich  Ameri- 
can heiress;  and  everybody  had  noticed  that  he  was 
paying  great  attention  to  the  slender,  fair-haired 
woman  whom  nobody  knew.  She  had  been  mar- 
ried, they  thought;  she  was  chaperoning  the  future 
princess;  and  she  was  very  intimate  with  that  young 
man,  a  Dutch  painter,  who  was  studying  art  in  Italy. 
They  had  soon  found  out  all  that  there  was  to  know. 

Cornelie  had  thought  it  pleasant  that  they  all 
looked  at  her;  and  she  had  flirted  so  obviously  with 
the  prince  that  Urania  had  become  angry.  Anct 
early  next  morning,  while  Cornelie  was  still  in  bed, 
no  longer  thinking  of  last  night  but  pondering  over 
a  sentence  in  her  pamphlet,  the  maid  knocked, 

118 


THE  INEVITABLE  119. 

brought  in  her  breakfast  and  letters  and  said  that 
Miss  Hope  was  asking  to  speak  to  her.  Cornelie 
had  Urania  shown  in,  while  she  remained  in  bed  and 
drank  her  chocolate.  And  she  looked  up  in  surprise 
when  Urania  at  once  overwhelmed  her  with  re- 
proaches, burst  into  sobs,  scolded  and  raved,  made 
a  violent  scene,  said  that  she  now  saw  through  her 
and  admitted  that  the  marchesa  had  urged  her  to  be 
careful  of  Cornelie,  whom  she  described  as  a  dan- 
gerous woman.  Cornelie  waited  until  she  had  had 
her  say  and  replied  coolly  that  she  had  nothing  on 
her  conscience,  that  on  the  contrary  she  had  saved 
Urania  and  been  of  service  to  her  as  a  chaperon, 
though  she  did  not  tell  her  that  the  prince  had 
wanted  her,  Cornelie,  to  dine  with  him  alone.  But 
Urania  refused  to  listen  and  went  on  ranting.  Cor- 
nelie looked  at  her  and  thought  her  vulgar  in  that 
rage  of  hers,  talking  her  American  English,  as 
though  she  were  chewing  filberts;  and  at  last  she 
answered,  calmly: 

"  My  dear  girl,  you're  upsetting  yourself  about 
nothing.  But,  if  you  like,  I  will  write  to  the  prince 
that  he  must  pay  me  no  more  attentions." 

"  No,  no,  don't  do  that :  it'll  make  Gilio  think  I'm 
jealous !  " 

"And  aren't  you?" 

"  Why  do  you  monopolize  Gilio  ?  Why  do  you 
flirt  with  him?  Why  do  you  make  yourself  con- 
spicuous with  him,  as  you  did  yesterday,  in  a  res- 
taurant full  of  people?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  dislike  it,  I  won't  flirt  with  Gilio 
again  or  make  myself  conspicuous  with  him  again. 
I  don't  care  twopence  about  your  prince." 

"  That's  an  extra  reason." 

"  Very  well,  dear,  that's  settled." 

Her  coolness  calmed  Urania,  who  asked: 

"And  do  we  remain  good  friends?  " 


120  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  Why,  of  course,  my  dear  girl.  Is  there  any 
occasion  for  us  to  quarrel?  I  don't  see  it." 

Both  of  them,  the  prince  and  Urania,  were  quite 
indifferent  to  her.  True,  she  had  preached  to 
Urania  in  the  beginning,  but  about  a  general  idea: 
when  afterwards  she  perceived  Urania's  insignifi- 
cance, she  withdrew  the  interest  which  she  took  in 
her.  And,  if  the  girl  was  offended  by  a  little  gaiety 
and  innocent  flirtation,  very  well,  there  should  be 
no  more  of"  it.  Her  thoughts  were  more  with  the 
proofs  which  the  post  had  brought  her. 

She  got  out  of  bed  and  stretched  herself: 

"  Go  into  the  sitting-room,  Urania  dear,  and  just 
let  me  have  my  bath." 

Presently,  all  fresh  and  smiling,  she  joined  Urania 
in  the  sitting-room.  Urania  was  crying. 

"  My  dear  child,  why  are  you  upsetting  yourself 
like  this?  You've  achieved  your  ideal.  Your  mar- 
riage is  as  good  as  certain.  You're  waiting  for  an 
answer  from  Chicago?  You're  impatient?  Then 
cable  out.  I  should  have  cabled  at  once  in  your 
place.  You  don't  imagine,  do  you,  that  your  father 
has  any  objection  to  your  becoming  Duchess  di  San 
Stefano?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet  what  I  myself  want,"  said 
Urania,  weeping.  "  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know." 

Cornelie  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

'  You're  more  sensible  than  I  thought,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  really  my  friend?  Can  I  trust  you? 
Can  I  trust  your  advice?  " 

"  I  won't  advise  you  again.  I  have  advised  you. 
You  must  know  your  own  mind." 

Urania  took  her  hand: 

"  Which  would  you  prefer,  that  I  accepted  Gilio 
...  or  not?" 

Cornelie  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes : 

"  You're    making   yourself   unhappy    about    no- 


THE  INEVITABLE  121 

thing.  You  think  —  and  the  marchesa  probably 
thinks  with  you  —  that  I  want  to  take  Gilio  from 
you?  No,  darling,  I  wouldn't  marry  Gilio  if  he 
were  king  and  emperor.  I  have  a  bit  of  the  social- 
ist in  me:  I  don't  marry  for  the  sake  of  a  title." 

"  No  more  would  I." 

"  Of  course,  darling,  no  more  would  you.  I 
never  dreamt  of  suggesting  that  you  would.  But 
you  ask  me  which  I  should  prefer.  Well,  I  tell  you 
in  all  sincerity:  I  don't  prefer  either.  The  whole 
business  leaves  me  cold." 

"  And  you  call  yourself  my  friend!  " 

"  So  I  am,  dear,  and  I  will  remain  your  friend. 
Only  don't  come  overwhelming  me  with  reproaches 
on  an  empty  stomach!  " 
(  You're  a  flirt." 

"  Sometimes.  It  comes  natural  to  me.  But, 
honestly,  I  won't  be  so  again  with  Gilio." 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  What  do  I  care?  He  amuses 
me;  but,  if  it  offends  you,  I'll  gladly  sacrifice  my 
amusement  for  your  sake.  I  don't  value  it  so 
much." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  Mr.  van  der  Staal?  " 

"  Very." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  him,  Cornelie?  " 

"  No,  dear.  I  sha'n't  marry  again.  I  know 
what  marriage  means.  Are  you  coming  for  a  little 
walk  with  me?  It's  a  fine  day;  and  you  have  upset 
me  so  with  your  little  troubles  that  I  can't  do  any 
work  this  morning.  It's  lovely  weather:  come 
along  and  buy  some  flowers  in  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna." 

They  went  and  bought  the  flowers.  Cornelie 
took  Urania  back  to  Belloni's.  As  she  walked 
away,  on  the  road  to  the  osteria  for  lunch,  she  heard 
somebody  following  her.  It  was  the  prince. 


122  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  I  caught  sight  of  you  from  the  corner  of  the 
Via  Aurora,"  he  said.  "  Urania  was  just  going 
home." 

"  Prince,"  she  said  at  once,  "  there  must  be  no 
more  of  it." 

"Of  what?" 

"  No  more  visits,  no  more  joking,  no  more  pre- 
sents, no  more  dinners  at  the  Grand-Hotel,  no  more 
champagne." 

"Why  not?" 

1  The  future  princess  won't  have  it." 

"  Is  she  jealous?  " 

Cornelie  described  the  scene  to  him: 

"  And  you  mayn't  even  walk  with  me." 

"Yes,  I  may." 

"  No,  no." 

"  I  shall,  for  all  that." 

11  By  the  right  of  the  man,  of  the  strongest?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  My  vocation  is  to  fight  against  it.  But  to-day 
I  am  untrue  to  my  vocation." 

"  You  are  charming  ...  as  always." 

"  You  mustn't  say  that  any  more." 

**  Urania's  a  bore.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  what  do  you 
advise  me  to  do?  Shall  I  marry  her?" 

Cornelie  gave  a  peal  of  laughter: 

"  You  both  of  you  keep  asking  my  advice !  " 

'  Yes,  yes,  what  do  you  think?  " 

"  Marry  her  by  all  means !  " 

He  did  not  observe  her  contempt. 

"  Exchange  your  escutcheon  for  her  purse,"  she 
continued  and  I'.ughed  and  laughed. 

He  now  perceived  it : 

"  You  despise  me,  perhaps  both  of  us." 

"  Oh,  no !  " 

"  Tell  r/ae  that  you  don't  despise  me." 

"  You   ask  me  my  opinion.     Urania  is  a  very 


THE  INEVITABLE  123 

sweet,  dear  child,  but  she  ought  not  to  travel  by 
herself.  And  you  .  .  ." 

"And  I?" 

"  You  are  a  delightful  boy.  Buy  me  those  vio- 
lets, will  you?  " 

"Subito,  subito!" 

He  bought  her  the  bunch  of  violets : 

'  You're  crazy  over  violets,  aren't  you?  " 

'  Yes.  This  must  be  your  second  .  .  .  and  your 
last  present.  And  here  we  say  good-bye." 

'  No,  I  shall  take  you  home." 

"  I'm  not  going  home." 

;'  Where  are  you  going?  " 

'  To  the  osteria.  Mr.  van  der  Staal  is  waiting 
for  me." 

"He's  a  lucky  man!" 

"Why?" 

"  He  needs  must  be !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why.     Good-bye,  prince." 

"  Ask  me  to  come  too,"  he  entreated.  "  Let  me 
lunch  with  you." 

"  No,"  she  said,  seriously.  "  Really  not.  It's 
better  not.  I  believe  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  That  Duco  is  just  like  Urania." 

"Jealous?  .  .   .  When  shall  I  see  you  again?" 

"  Really,  believe  me,  it's  better  not.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye, prince.  And  thank  you  .  .  .  for  th?  violets." 

He  bent  over  her  hand.  She  went  into  the 
osteria  and  saw  that  Duco  had  witnessed  their  leave- 
taking  through  the  window. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Duco  was  silent  and  nervous  at  table.  He 
played  with  his  bread;  and  his  fingers  trembled. 
She  felt  that  he  had  something  on  his  mind: 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  kindly. 

"  Cornelie,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

"What  about?" 

"  You're  not  behaving  properly." 

"  In  what  respect?  " 

"  With  the  prince.  You've  seen  through  him  and 
yet  .  .  .  yet  you  go  on  putting  up  with  him,  yet 
you're  always  meeting  him.  Let  me  finish,"  he  said, 
looking  around  him:  there  was  no  one  in  the  res- 
taurant save  two  Italians,  sitting  at  the  far  table, 
and  they  could  speak  without  being  overheard. 
"  Let  me  finish,"  he  repeated,  when  she  tried  to 
interrupt  him.  "  Let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say. 
You  of  course  are  free  to  act  as  you  please.  But 
I  am  your  friend  and  I  want  to  advise  you.  What 
you  are  doing  is  not  right.  The  prince  is  a  cad,  a 
low,  common  cad.  How  can  you  accept  presents 
from  him  and  invitations?  Why  did  you  compel 
me  to  come  yesterday?  The  dinner  was  one  long 
torture  to  me.  You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  you: 
why  shouldn't  I  confess  it?  You  know  how  high  I 
hold  you.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  lowering  your- 
self with  him.  Let  me  speak.  Lowering,  I  say. 
He  is  not  worthy  to  tie  your  shoe-strings.  And  you 
play  with  him,  you  jest  with  him,  you  flirt  —  let  me 
speak  —  you  flirt  with  him.  What  can  he  be  to 
you,  a  coxcomb  like  that?  What  part  can  he  play 

124 


THE  INEVITABLE  125 

in  your  life?  Let  him  marry  Miss  Hope:  what  do 
you  care  about  either  of  them?  What  do  inferior 
people  matter  to  you,  Cornelie?  I  despise  them 
and  so  do  you.  I  know  you  do.  Then  why  do  you 
cross  their  lives?  Let  them  live  in  the  vanity  of 
their  titles  and  money:  what  is  it  all  to  you?  I 
don't  understand  you.  Oh,  I  know,  you're  not  to 
be  understood,  all  the  woman  part  of  you !  And  I 
love  everything  that  I  see  of  you:  I  love  you  in 
everything.  It  doesn't  matter  whether  I  under- 
stand you.  But  I  do  feel  that  this  isn't  right.  I 
ask  you  not  to  see  the  prince  any  more.  Have  no- 
thing more  to  do  with  him.  Cut  him.  .  .  .  That 
dinner,  last  night,  was  a  torture  to  me.  .  .  ." 

"  My  poor  boy,"  she  said,  gently,  filling  his  glass 
from  their  fiasco,  "  but  why?  " 

"Why?  Why?  Because  you're  lowering  your- 
self." 

"  I  do  not  stand  so  high.  No,  let  me  speak  now. 
I  do  not  stand  high.  Because  I  have  a  few  modern 
ideas  and  a  few  others  which  are  broader-minded 
than  those  of  most  women?  Apart  from  that  I  am 
an  ordinary  woman.  When  a  man  is  cheerful  and 
witty,  it  amuses  me.  No,  Duco,  I'm  speaking  now. 
I  don't  consider  the  prince  a  cad.  I  may  think  him 
a  coxcomb,  but  I  think  him  cheerful  and  witty.  You 
know  that  I  too  am  very  fond  of  you,  but  you  are 
neither  cheerful  nor  witty.  Now  don't  get  angry. 
You  are  much  more  than  that.  I'm  not  even  com- 
paring il  nostro  Gilio  with  you.  I  won't  say  any- 
thing more  about  you,  or  you  will  become  con- 
ceited, but  cheerful  and  witty  you  are  not.  And  my 
poor  nature  sometimes  feels  a  need  for  these  quali- 
ties. What  have  I  in  my  life?  Nothing  but  you, 
you  alone.  I  am  very  glad  to  possess  your  friend- 
ship, very  happy  in  having  met  you.  But  why  may 
I  not  sometimes  be  cheerful?  .Really,  there  is  a 


126  THE  INEVITABLE 

little  light-heartedness  in  me,  a  little  frivolity  even. 
Am  I  bound  to  fight  against  it?  Duco,  am  I 
wicked?" 

He  smiled  sadly;  there  was  a  moist  light  in  his 
eyes;  and  he  did  not  answer. 

"  I  can  fight,  if  necessary,"  she  resumed.  "  But 
is  this  a  thing  to  fight  against?  It  is  a  passing  bub- 
ble, nothing  more.  I  forget  it  the  next  minute.  I 
forget  the  prince  the  next  minute.  And  you  I  do 
not  forget." 

He  was  looking  at  her  radiantly. 

"  Do  you  understand  that?  Do  you  understand 
that  I  don't  flirt  and  fence  with  you?  Shake  hands 
and  stop  being  angry." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  across  the  table  and  he 
pressed  her  fingers: 

"  Cornelie,"  he  said,  softly.  "  Yes,  I  feel  that 
you  are  loyal.  Cornelie,  will  you  be  my  wife?  " 

She  looked  straight  in  front  of  her  and  drooped 
her  head  a  little  and  stared  before  her  earnestly. 
They  were  no  longer  eating.  The  two  Italians 
stood  up,  bowed  and  went  away.  They  were  alone. 
The  waiter  set  some  fruit  before  them  and  with- 
drew. 

They  both  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
spoke  in  a  gentle  voice;  and  her  whole  being  dis- 
played so  tender  a  melancholy  that  he  could  have 
burst  into  sobs  and  worshipped  her  where  she  sat. 

"  I  knew  of  course  that  you  would  ask  me  that 
some  day.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  things.  A  great 
friendship  like  ours  was  bound  to  lead  to  that  quest- 
ion. But  it  can't  be,  dearest  Duco.  It  can't  be, 
my  dear,  dear  boy.  I  have  my  own  ideas  .  .  .  but 
it's  not  that.  I  am  against  marriage  .  .  .  but  it's 
not  that.  In  some  cases  a  woman  is  unfaithful  to 
all  her  ideas  in  a  single  second.  .  .  .  Then  what  is 
it?  .  ." 


THE  INEVITABLE  127 

She  stared  wide-eyed  and  passed  her  hand  over 
her  forehead,  as  though  she  did  not  see  clearly. 
Then  she  continued : 

"  It  is  this,  that  I  am  afraid  of  marriage.  I  have 
been  through  it,  I  know  what  it  means.  ...  I  see 
my  husband  before  me  now.  I  see  that  habit,  that 
groove  before  me,  in  which  the  subtler  individual 
characteristics  are  effaced.  That  is  what  marriage 
is:  a  habit,  a  groove.  And  I  tell  you  candidly:  I 
think  marriage  loathsome.  I  think  passion  beauti- 
ful, but  marriage  is  not  passion.  Passion  can  be 
noble  and  superhuman,  but  marriage  is  a  human  in- 
stitution based  upon  our  petty  human  morality  and 
calculation.  And  I  have  become  frightened  of 
those  prudent  moral  ties.  I  promised  myself  — 
and  I  believe  that  I  shall  keep  my  promise  —  never 
to  marry  again.  My  whole  nature  has  become  un- 
fitted for  it.  I  am  no  longer  the  Hague  girl  going 
to  parties  and  dinners  and  looking  out  for  a  hus- 
band, together  with  her  parents.  .  .  .  My  love  for 
him  was  passion.  And  in  my  marriage  he  wanted 
to  restrict  that  passion  to  a  groove  and  a  custom. 
Then  I  rebelled.  ...  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it. 
Passion  lasts  too  short  a  time  to  fill  a  married  life. 
.  .  .  Mutual  esteem  to  follow,  etcetera?  One 
needn't  marry  for  that.  I  can  feel  esteem  just  as 
well  without  being  married.  Of  course  there  is  the 
question  of  the  children,  there  are  many  difficulties. 
I  can't  think  it  all  out  now.  I  merely  feel  now,  very 
seriously  and  calmly,  that  I  am  not  fit  to  marry  and 
that  I  never  will  marry  again.  I  should  not  make 
you  happy.  .  .  .  Don't  be  sad,  Duco.  I  am  fond 
of  you,  I  love  you.  And  perhaps  .  .  .  had  I  met" 
you  at  the  right  moment.  Had  I  met  you  before, 
in  my  Hague  life  .  .  .  you  would  certainly  have 
stood  too  high  for  me.  I  could  not  have  grown 
fond  of  you.  Now  I  can  understand  you,  respect 


128  THE  INEVITABLE 

you  and  look  up  to  you.  I  tell  you  this  quite  simply, 
that  I  love  you  and  look  up  to  you,  look  up  to  you, 
in  spite  of  all  your  gentleness,  as  I  never  looked  up 
to  my  husband,  however  much  he  made  his  manly 
privilege  prevail.  And  you  are  to  believe  that,  very 
firmly  and  with  great  certainty,  and  you  must  believe 
that  I  am  true.  I  am  coquettish  .  .  .  only  with 
Gilio." 

He  lotfked  at  her  through  his  silent  tears.  He 
stood  up,  called  the  waiter,  paid  the  bill  absent- 
mindedly,  while  everything  swam  and  flashed  before 
his  eyes.  They  went  out  of  the  door  and  she  hailed 
a  carriage  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to  the  Villa 
Doria-Pamphili.  She  remembered  that  the  gardens 
were  open.  They  drove  there  in  silence,  steeped  in 
their  thoughts  of  the  future  that  was  opening  tremu- 
lously before  them.  Sometimes  he  heaved  a  deep 
breath  and  quivered  all  over  his  body.  Once  she 
fervently  squeezed  his  hand.  At  the  gate  of  the 
villa  they  alighted  and  walked  up  the  majestic  ave- 
nues. Rome  lay  in  the  depths  below ;  and  they  sud- 
denly saw  St.  Peter's.  But  they  did  not  speak;  and 
she  suddenly  sat  down  on  an  ancient  bench  and  be- 
gan to  weep  softly  and  feebly.  He  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  comforted  her.  She  dried  her  tears, 
smiled  and  embraced  him  and  returned  his  kiss.  .  .  . 
Twilight  fell;  and  they  went  back.  He  gave  the 
address  of  his  studio.  She  accompanied  him.  And 
she  gave  herself  to  him,  in  all  her  truthful  sincerity 
and  with  a  love  so  violent  and  so  great  that  she 
thought  she  would  swoon  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

They  did  not  alter  their  mode  of  life.  Duco, 
however,  after  a  scene  with  his  mother,  no  longer 
slept  at  Belloni's  but  in  a  little  room  adjoining  his 
studio  and  at  first  filled  with  trunks  and  lumber. 
Cornelie  was  sorry  about  the  scene :  she  had  always 
had  a  liking  for  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and  the  girls. 
But  a  certain  pride  arose  in  her;  and  Cornelie  de- 
spised Mrs.  van  der  Staal  because  she  was  unable  to 
understand  either  her  or  Duco.  Still,  she  would 
have  been  pleased  to  prevent  this  coolness.  At  her 
advice  Duco  went  to  see  his  mother  again,  but  she 
remained  cool  and  sent  him  away.  Thereupon  Cor- 
nelie and  Duco  went  to  Naples.  They  did  not  do 
this  by  way  of  an  elopement,  they  did  it  quite  sim- 
ply: Cornelie  told  Urania  and  the  prince  that  she 
was  going  to  Naples  for  a  little  while  and  that  Van 
der  Staal  would  probably  follow  her.  She  did  not 
know  Naples  and  would  appreciate  it  greatly  if 
Van  der  Staal  showed  her  over  the  town  and  the 
surrounding  country.  Cornelie  kept  on  her  rooms, 
in  Rome.  And  they  spent  a  fortnight  of  sheer, 
careless  and  immense  happiness.  Their  love  grew 
spacious  and  blossoming  in  the  golden  sunlight  of 
Naples,  on  the  blue  gulfs  of  Amalfi,  Sorrento,  Capri 
and  Castellamare,  simply,  irresistibly  and  restfully. 
They  glided  gradually  along  the  purple  thread  of 
their  lives,  they  walked  hand  in  hand  down  their 
lines  now  fused  into  one  path,  heedless  of  the  laws 
and  ideas  of  men;  and  their  attitude  was  so  lofty, 
their  action  so  serene  and  so  certain  of  their  happi- 

129 


130  THE  INEVITABLE 

ness,  that  their  relations  did  not  degenerate  into 
insolence,  although  within  themselves  they  despised 
the  world.  But  this  happiness  softened  all  that 
pride  in  their  soaring  souls,  as  if  their  happiness 
were  strewing  blossoms  all  around  it.  They  lived 
in  a  dream,  first  among  the  marbles  in  the  museum, 
then  on  the  flower-strewn  cliffs  of  Amalfi,  on  the 
beach  of  Capri  or  on  the  terrace  of  the  hotel  at 
Sorrento,  with  the  sea  roaring  at  their  feet  and,  in  a 
pearly  haze,  yonder,  vaguely  white,  as  though  drawn 
in  white  chalk,  Castellamare  and  Naples  and  the 
ghost  of  Vesuvius,  with  its  hazy  plume  of  smoke. 

They  held  aloof  from  everybody,  from  all  the 
people  and  excursionists;  they  had  their  meals  at  a 
small  table;  and  it  was  generally  thought  that  they 
were  newly  married.  If  others  looked  up  their 
names  in  the  visitors'  book,  they  read  two  names  and 
made  whispered  comments.  But  the  lovers  did  not 
hear,  did  not  see;  they  lived  their  dream,  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes  or  at  the  opal  sky,  the  pearly 
sea  and  the  hazy,  white  mountain-vistas,  studded 
with  towns  like  little  specks  of  chalk. 

When  their  money  was  almost  exhausted,  they 
smiled  and  went  back  to  Rome  and  resumed  their 
former  lives:  she  in  her  rooms  and  he,  now,  in  his 
studio;  and  they  took  their  meals  together.  But 
they  pursued  their  dream  among  the  ruins  in  the 
Via  Appia,  around  and  near  Frascati,  beyond  the 
Ponte  Molle,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Monte  Mario  and 
in  the  gardens  of  the  villas,  among  the  statues  and 
paintings,  mingling  their  happiness  with  the  Roman 
atmosphere:  he  interweaving  his  new-found  love 
with  his  love  for  Rome;  she  growing  to  love  Rome 
because  of  him.  And  because  of  that  charm  they 
were  surrounded  by  a  sort  of  aura,  through  which 
they  did  not  see  ordinary  life  or  meet  ordinary 
people. 


THE  INEVITABLE  131 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  Urania  found  them  both 
at  home,  in  Cornelie's  room,  the  fire  lighted,  she 
smiling  and  gazing  into  the  fire,  he  sitting  at  her 
feet  and  she  with  her  arm  round  his  neck.  And 
they  were  evidently  thinking  of  so  little  besides  their 
own  love  that  neither  of  them  heard  her  knock  and 
both  suddenly  saw  her  standing  before  them,  like 
an  unexpected  reality.  Their  dream  was  over  for 
that  day.  Urania  laughed,  Cornelie  laughed  and 
Duco  pushed  an  easy-chair  closer.  And  Urania, 
blithe,  beautiful  and  brilliant,  told  them  that  she  was 
engaged.  Where  on  earth  had  they  been  hiding, 
she  asked,  inquisitively.  She  was  engaged.  She 
had  been  to  San  Stefano,  she  had  seen  the  old 
prince.  And  everything  was  lovely  and  good  and 
dear:  the  old  castle  a  dear  old  house,  the  old  man 
a  dear  old  man.  She  saw  everything  through  the 
glitter  of  her  future  princess'  title.  Princess  and 
duchess !  The  wedding-day  was  fixed :  immediately 
after  Easter,  in  a  little  more  than  three  months 
therefore.  It  was  to  be  celebrated  at  San  Carlo, 
with  all  the  splendour  of  a  great  wedding.  Her 
father  was  coming  over  for  it  with  her  youngest 
brother.  She  was  obviously  not  looking  forward  to 
their  arrival.  And  she  never  finished  talking:  she 
gave  a  thousand  details  about  her  bridal  outfit,  with 
which  the  marchesa  was  helping  her.  They  were 
going  to  live  at  Nice,  in  a  large  flat.  She  raved 
about  Nice:  that  was  a  first-rate  idea  of  Gilio's. 
And  incidentally  she  remembered  and  told  them  that 
she  had  become  a  Catholic.  That  was  a  great  nui- 
sance !  But  the  monsignori  saw  to  everything  and 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  guided  by  them.  And  the 
Pope  was  to  receive  her  in  private  audience,  together 
with  Gilio.  The  difficulty  was  what  to  wear  at  the 
audience:  black,  of  course,  but  .  .  .  velvet,  satin? 
What  did  Cornelie  advise  her?  She  had  such  ex- 


132  THE  INEVITABLE 

cellent  taste.  And  a  black-lace  veil  on  her  head, 
with  brilliants.  She  was  going  to  Nice  next  day, 
with  the  marchesa  and  Gilio,  to  see  their  flat. 

When  she  was  gone,  after  begging  Cornelie  to 
come  and  admire  her  trousseau,  Cornelie  said,  with 
a  smile : 

"  She  is  happy.  After  all,  happiness  is  something 
different  for  everybody.  A  trousseau  and  a  title 
would  not  make  me  happy." 

"  These  are  the  small  people,"  he  said,  "  who 
cross  our  lives  now  and  again.  I  prefer  to  get  out 
of  their  way." 

And  they  did  not  say  so,  but  they  both  thought  — 
with  their  fingers  interlaced,  her  eyes  gazing  into  his 
—  that  they  also  were  happy,  but  with  a  loftier,  bet- 
ter and  nobler  happiness;  and  pride  arose  within 
them;  and  they  beheld  as  in  a  vision  the  line  of  their 
life  winding  up  a  steep  hill.  But  happiness  snowed 
blossoms  down  upon  it;  and  amid  the  snowing  blos- 
soms,, holding  high  their  proud  heads,  with  smiles 
and  eyes  of  love,  they  walked  on  in  their  dream  re- 
mote from  mankind  and  reality. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  months  dreamed  past.  And  their  happiness 
caused  such  a  summer  to  bloom  in  them  that  she 
ripened  in  beauty  and  he  in  talent;  the  pride  in  them 
broke  into  expression :  in  her  it  was  the  blossoming 
of  her  being,  in  him  it  was  energy;  her  languid 
charm  became  transformed  into  a  proud  slender- 
ness;  her  contour  increased  in  fullness;  a  light 
illumined  her  eyes,  a  gladness  shone  about  her 
mouth.  His  hands  quivered  with  nervous  emotion 
when  he  took  up  his  brushes;  and  the  skies  of  Italy 
arched  firmaments  before  his  eyes  like  a  canopy  of 
love  and  fervid  colour.  He  drew  and  completed 
a  series  of  water-colours:  hazes  of  dreamy  atmo- 
sphere which  suggested  Turner's  noblest  creations; 
natural  monuments  of  sheer  haze ;  all  the  milky  blue 
and  pearly  mistiness  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  like  a 
goblet  filled  with  light  in  which  a  turquoise  is  melted 
into  water;  and  he  sent  them  to  Holland,  to  Lon- 
don, found  that  he  had  suddenly  discovered  his  voca- 
tion, his  work  and  his  fame :  courage,  strength,  aim 
and  conquest. 

She  too  achieved  a  certain  success  with  her  arti- 
cle: it  was  discussed,  contested;  her  name  was  men- 
tioned. But  she  felt  a  certain  indifference  when 
she  read  her  name  in  connection  with  the  feminist 
movement.  She  preferred  to  live  with  him  his  life 
of  observation  and  emotion;  and  she  often  imparted 
to  all  the  haze  of  his  vision,  to  the  excessive  haziness 
of  his  colour-dream  a  lustre  of  light,  a  definite 
horizon,  a  streak  of  actuality  which  gave  realism 
to  the  mist  of  his  ideal.  She  learnt  with  him  to 

133 


134  THE  INEVITABLE 

distinguish  and  to  feel  nature,  art,  all  Rome;  and, 
when  a  symbolic  impulse  overmastered  him,  she 
surrendered  herself  to  it  entirely.  He  planned  a 
large  sketch  of  a  procession  of  women,  mounting 
along  a  line  of  life  that  wound  up  a  hill :  they  seemed 
to  be  moving  out  of  a  crumbling  city  of  antiquity, 
whose  pillars,  joined  by  a  single  architrave,  quivered 
on  high  in  a  violet  haze  of  evening  dusk;  they 
seemed  to  be  releasing  themselves  from  the  shadow 
of  the  ruins  fading  away  on  the  horizon  into  the 
void  of  night;  and  they  thronged  upwards,  calling 
to  one  another  aloud,  beckoning  to  one  another  with 
great  waving  gestures  of  their  hands,  under  a  mighty 
fluttering  of  streamers  and  pennants;  they  grasped 
hammer  and  pick-axe  with  sinewy  arms;  and  the 
throng  of  them  moved  up  and  up,  along  the  line, 
where  the  light  grew  whiter  and  whiter,  until  in  the 
hazy  air  there  dimly  showed  the  distant  vista  of  a 
new  city,  whose  iron  buildings,  like  central  stations 
and  Eiffel  towers  in  the  white  glimmer  of  the  dis- 
tance, gleamed  up  very  faintly  with  a  reflection  of 
glass  arches  and  glass  roofs  and,  high  in  the  air, 
the  musical  staves  of  the  threads  of  sound  and  ac- 
companiment. .  .  . 

And  to  so  great  an  extent  did  their  influences 
work  upon  each  other's  souls  that  she  learnt  to  see 
and  he  learnt  to  think:  she  saw  beauty,  art,  nature, 
haze  and  emotion  and  no  longer  imagined  them  but 
felt  them;  he,  as  in  his  sketch,  a  very  vague,  modern 
city  of  glass  and  iron,  saw  a  modern  city  rising  out 
of  his  dream-haze  and  thought  of  a  modern  quest- 
ion, in  accordance  with  his  own  nature  and  aptitudes. 
She  learnt  above  all  to  see  and  feel  like  a  woman  in 
love,  with  the  eyes  and  heart  of  the  man  she  loves; 
he  thought  out  the  question  plastically.  But  what- 
ever the  imperfection  in  the  absoluteness  of  their 
new  spheres  of  feeling  and  thought,  the  reciprocal 


THE  INEVITABLE  135 

influence,  through  their  love,  gave  them  a  happiness 
so  great,  so  united,  that  at  that  moment  they  could 
not  contemplate  it  or  apprehend  it:  it  was  almost 
ecstasy,  a  faint  unreality,  in  which  they  dreamed, 
whereas  it  was  all  pure  truth  and  tangible  actuality. 
Their  manner  of  thinking,   feeling  and  living  was 
an  ideal  of  reality,  an  ideal  entered  and  attained, 
along  the  gradual  line  of  their  life,  along  the  golden 
thread  of  their  love;  and  they  scarcely  apprehended 
or  contemplated  it,  because  the  every-day  life  still 
clung  to  them.     But  only  to  the  smallest,  inevitable 
extent.     They  lived  apart;  but  in  the  morning  she 
went  to  him  and  found  him  working  at  his  sketch; 
and  she  sat  down  beside  him  and  leant  her  head  on 
his  shoulder;  and  they  thought  it  out  together.     He 
sketched   each   figure   in   his   procession   of  women 
separately   and   sought    for   the    features   and   the 
modelling  of  the  figures:  some  had  the  Mongolian 
aspect    of    Memmi's    angel    of    the    Annunciation, 
others  Cornelie's  slenderness  and  her  later,   fuller 
wholesomeness;  he  sought  for  the  folds  of  the  cos- 
tumes: the  women  escaped  from  the  violet  dusk  of 
the  ruined  city  in  pleated  pepli;  and  farther  on  their 
garments  altered  as  in  a  masquerade  of  the  ages: 
the  long  trains  of  the  medieval  ladies,  the  veils  of 
the  sultanas,  the  homespun  of  the  workwomen,  the 
caps    of    the   nursing   sisters,    the    attire    becoming 
more    modern    as   the   wearer   personified   a   more 
modern  age.     And  in  this  grouping  the  draughts- 
manship was  so  unsubstantial  and  sober,  the  trans- 
ition from  drooping  folds  to  practical  stiffness  so 
careful  and  so  gradual,  that  Cornelie  hardly  per- 
ceived the  transition,  that  she  appeared  to  be  con- 
templating one  style,  one  fashion  in  dress,  whereas 
each  figure  nevertheless  was  clad  in  a  different  stuff, 
of   different  cut,    falling   into    different   lines.   .  .  . 
The  drawing  displayed  an  old-mastery  purity,  a  sim- 


i36  THE  INEVITABLE 

plicity  of  outline,  which  was  nevertheless  modern, 
nervous  and  morbid,  but  without  the  conventional 
ideal  of  symbolical  human  forms;  the  grouping 
showed  a  Raphaelite  harmony,  the  water-colour 
tints  of  the  first  studies  the  haze  of  Italy :  the  ruined 
city  loomed  in  the  dusk  as  he  saw  the  Forum  loom- 
ing; the  city  of  iron  and  glass  gleamed  up  with  its 
architecture  of  light,  such  as  he  had  seen  from  Sor- 
rento shining  around  Naples.  She  felt  that  he  was 
creating  a  great  work  and  had  never  taken  so  lively 
an  interest  in  anything  as  she  now  did  in  his  idea 
and  his  sketches.  She  sat  behind  him  silent  and  still 
and  followed  his  drawing  of  the  waving  banners  and 
fluttering  pennants ;  and  she  did  not  breathe  when  she 
saw  him,  with  a  few  dabs  of  white  and  touches  of 
light  —  as  though  light  were  one  of  the  colours  on 
his  palette  —  make  the  glass  city  emerge  as  from 
a  dream  on  the  horizon.  Then  he  would  ask  her 
something  about  one  of  the  figures  and  put  his  arm 
around  her  and  draw  her  to  him;  and  they  would 
long  sit  scrutinizing  and  thinking  out  lines  and 
ideas,  until  evening  fell  and  the  evening  chill  shud- 
dered through  the  studio  and  they  rose  slowly  from 
their  seats.  Then  they  went  out  and  in  the  Corso 
they  returned  to  real  life:  silently,  sitting  at 
Aragno's,  they  watched  the  bustle  outside;  and  in 
their  little  restaurant,  with  their  eyes  absorbing  each 
other's  glance,  they  ate  their  simple  dinner  and 
looked  so  obviously  and  harmoniously  happy,  that 
the  Italians,  the  two  who  also  always  sat  at  the  far 
table,  at  that  same  hour,  smiled  as  they  bowed  to 
them  on  entering.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

At  the  same  time  Duco  developed  great  powers 
of  work:  so  much  thought  dimly  took  shape  before 
him  that  he  was  constantly  discovering  another  mo- 
tive and  symbolizing  it  in  another  figure.  He 
sketched  a  life-size  woman  walking,  with  that  ad- 
mixture of  child,  woman  and  goddess  which  charac- 
terized his  figures,  and  she  walked  slowly  down  a 
descending  line  towards  a  sombre  depth,  without 
seeing  or  understanding;  her  eyes  towards  the  abyss 
in  magnetic  attraction;  vague  hands  hovered  around 
her  like  a  cloud  and  softly  pushed  and  guided  her; 
on  the  hill-top,  on  high  rocks,  in  the  bright  light, 
other  figures,  holding  harps,  called  to  her;  but  she 
went  towards  the  depth,  pushed  by  hands;  in  the 
abyss  blossomed  strange  purple  orchids,  like  mouths 
of  love.  ... 

When  Cornelie  came  to  his  studio  one  morning, 
he  had  suddenly  sketched  this  idea.  It  came  upon 
her  as  a  surprise,  for  he  had  not  mentioned  it  to 
her:  the  idea  had  sprung  up  suddenly;  the  quick, 
spontaneous  execution  had  not  taken  him  an  hour. 
He  was  almost  apologizing  to  her  when  he  saw  her 
surprise.  She  certainly  admired  it,  but  shuddered 
at  it  and  preferred  The  Banners,  the  great  water- 
colour,  the  procession  of  the  women  marching  to  the 
battle  of  life. 

And  to  please  her  he  put  the  straying  woman 
aside  and  worked  on  solely  at  the  striving  women. 
But  constantly  a  fresh  thought  came  and  disturbed 
him  in  his  work;  and  in  her  absence  he  would  sketch 
some  new  symbol,  until  the  sketches  accumulated  and 

137 


i38  THE  INEVITABLE 

lay  spread  on  every  side.  She  put  them  away  in 
portfolios;  she  removed  them  from  easel  and  board; 
she  saved  him  from  wandering  too  far  from  The 
Banners;  and  this  was  the  one  thing  that  he  com- 
pleted. 

Thus  smoothly  did  their  life  seem  willing  to  run, 
along  a  gracious  line,  in  one  golden  direction,  while 
his  symbols  blossomed  like  flowers  on  either  side, 
while  the  azure  of  their  love  seemed  to  form  the 
sky  overhead;  but  she  plucked  away  the  superfluous 
flowers  and  only  The  Banners  waved  above  their 
path,  in  the  firmament  of  their  ecstasy,  even  as  they 
waved  above  the  militant  women. 

They  had  but  one  distraction,  the  wedding  of  the 
prince  and  Urania:  a  dinner,  a  ball  and  the  cere- 
mony at  San  Carlo,  attended  by  all  the  Roman 
aristocracy,  who  however  welcomed  the  wealthy 
American  bride  with  a  certain  reserve.  But,  when 
the  Prince  and  Princess  di  Forte-Braccio  left  for 
Nice,  all  distraction  was  at  an  end;  and  the  days 
once  more  glided  along  the  same  gracious  golden 
line.  And  Cornelie  retained  only  one  unpleasant 
recollection:  her  meeting  during  those  festive  days 
with  Mrs.  van  der  Staal,  who  cut  her  persistently, 
turned  her  back  on  her  and  succeeded  in  conveying 
to  her  that  the  friendship  was  over.  She  had  ac- 
cepted the  position;  she  had  realized  how  difficult  it 
was  —  even  if  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  had  been  willing 
to  speak  to  her  —  to  explain  to  a  woman  like  this, 
rooted  in  her  social  and  worldly  conventions,  her 
own  proud  ideas  of  freedom,  independence  and  hap- 
piness. And  she  had  avoided  the  girls  also,  under- 
standing that  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  wished  it.  She 
was  not  angry  at  all  this  nor  hurt;  she  could  under- 
stand it  in  Duco's  mother:  she  was  only  a  little  sad 
about  it,  because  she  liked  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  and 
liked  the  two  girls.  But  she  quite  understood:  it 


THE  INEVITABLE  139 

had  to  be  so;  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  knew  or  suspected 
everything.  Duco's  mother  could  not  act  differ- 
ently, though  the  prince  and  Urania,  for  friendship's 
sake,  overlooked  any  liaison  between  Duco  and  Cor- 
nelie ;  though  the  Roman  world  during  the  wedding- 
festivities  accepted  them  simply  as  friends,  as 
acquaintances,  as  fellow-countrymen,  whatever  they 
might  whisper,  smiling,  behind  their  fans.  But  now 
those  festivities  were  over,  now  they  had  passed 
that  point  of  contact  with  the  world  and  people, 
now  their  golden  line  once  more  sloped  gently  and 
evenly  before  them.  .  .  . 

Then  Cornelie,  not  thinking  of  the  Hague  at 
all,  received  a  letter  from  the  Hague.  The  let- 
ter was  from  her  father  and  consisted  of  several 
sheets,  which  surprised  her,  for  he  never  wrote. 
What  she  read  startled  her  greatly,  but  did  not  at 
first  dishearten  her  altogether,  perhaps  because  she 
did  not  realize  the  full  import  of  her  father's  news. 
He  implored  her  forgiveness.  He  had  long  been  in 
financial  difficulties.  He  had  lost  a  great  deal  of 
money.  They  would  have  to  move  into  a  smaller 
house.  The  atmosphere  at  home  was  unpleasant: 
Mamma  cried  all  day;  the  sisters  quarrelled;  the 
family  proffered  advice;  the  acquaintances  were  dis- 
agreeable. And  he  implored  her  forgiveness.  He 
had  speculated  and  lost.  And  he  had  also  lost  her 
own  little  capital,  which  he  managed  for  her,  her 
godmother's  legacy.  He  asked  her  not  to  think  too 
hardly  of  him.  Things  might  have  turned  out  dif- 
ferently; and  then  she  would  have  been  three  times 
as  well  off.  He  admitted  it,  he  had  done  wrong; 
but  still  he  was  her  father  and  he  asked  her,  his 
child,  to  forgive  him  and  requested  her  to  come 
home. 

She  was  at  first  greatly  startled,  but  soon  reco- 
vered her  calmness.  She  was  in  too  happy  a  mood 


140  THE  INEVITABLE 

of  vital  harmony  to  be  depressed  by  the  news.  She 
received  the  letter  in  bed,  did  not  get  up  at  once, 
reflected  a  little,  then  dressed,  breakfasted  as  usual 
and  went  to  Duco.  He  received  her  with  en- 
thusiasm and  showed  her  three  new  sketches.  She 
reproached  him  gently  for  allowing  himself  to  be 
distracted  from  his  main  idea,  said  that  these  dis- 
tractions would  exhaust  his  activity,  his  persever- 
ance. She  urged  him  to  keep  on  working  at  The 
Banners.  And  she  inspected  the  great  water-colour 
intently,  with  the  ancient,  crumbling  Forum-like 
city  and  the  procession  of  the  women  towards 
the  metropolis  of  the  future,  standing  high  in  the 
dawn.  And  suddenly  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that 
her  future  also  had  fallen  into  ruins  and  that  its 
crumbling  arches  hung  menacingly  over  her  head. 
Then  she  gave  him  her  father's  letter  to  read.  He 
read  it  twice,  looked  at  her  aghast  and  asked  what 
she  proposed  to  do.  She  said  that  she  had  already 
thought  it  over,  but  so  far  decided  only  upon  the 
most  immediate  thing  to  be  done:  to  give  up  her 
rooms  and  come  to  him  in  his  studio.  She  had  just 
enough  left  to  pay  the  rent  of  her  rooms.  But, 
after  that,  she  had  no  money,  no  money  at  all.  She 
had  never  consented  to  accept  alimony  from  her 
husband.  All  that  was  still  due  to  her  was  the  pay- 
ment for  her  article. 

He  at  once  put  out  his  hands  to  her,  kissed  her 
and  said  that  this  had  been  also  his  idea  at  once, 
that  she  should  come  to  him  and  live  with  him.  He 
had  enough:  a  tiny  patrimony;  he  made  a  little 
money  in  addition :  there  would  be  enough  for  the 
two  of  them.  -  And  they  laughed  and  kissed  and 
glanced  round  the  studio.  Duco  slept  in  a  small 
adjoining  den,  a  sort  of  long  wall-cupboard.  And 
they  glanced  round  to  see  what  they  could  do.  Cor- 
nelie  knew :  here,  a  curtain  draped  over  a  cord,  with 


THE  INEVITABLE  141 

her  wash-hand-stand  behind  it.  That  was  all  she 
needed,  only  that  little  corner:  otherwise  Duco 
would  not  have  a  good  light.  They  were  very 
merry  and  thought  it  a  jolly,  a  capital  idea.  They 
went  out  at  once,  bought  a  little  iron  bedstead  and 
a  dressing-table  and  themselves  hung  up  the  curtain. 
Then  they  both  went  to  pack  the  trunks  in  the  Via 
di  Serpenti  .  .  .  and  dined  at  the  osteria.  Cor- 
nelie  suggested  that  they  should  dine  at  home  now 
and  then :  it  was  cheaper.  When  they  returned 
home,  she  was  enchanted  that  her  installation  took 
up  so  little  room,  hardly  six  feet  by  six,  with  that 
little  bed  behind  the  curtain.  They  were  very 
cheerful  that  evening.  The  bohemianism  of  it  all 
amused  them.  They  were  in  Italy,  the  land  of  sun- 
shine, of  beauty,  of  lazzaroni,  of  beggars  who  slept 
on  the  steps  of  a  cathedral;  and  they  felt  akin  to 
that  sunny  poverty.  They  were  happy,  they  wanted 
for  nothing.  They  would  live  on  nothing,  or  at  any 
rate  on  very  little.  And  they  saw  the  future  bright, 
smiling.  They  were  closer  together  now,  they 
would  live  more  closely  linked  together.  They 
loved  each  other  and  were  happy  in  a  land  of 
beauty,  in  an  ideal  of  noble  symbolism  and  life- 
embracing  art. 

Next  morning  he  worked  zealously,  without  a 
word,  absorbed  in  his  dream,  in  his  work;  and  she, 
likewise,  silent,  contented,  happy,  examined  her 
blouses  and  skirts  attentively  and  reflected  that  she 
would  need  nothing  more  for  quite  another  year 
and  that  her  old  clothes  were  amply  sufficient  for 
their  life  of  happiness  and  simplicity. 

And  she  answered  her  father's  letter  very  briefly, 
saying  that  she  forgave  him,  that  she  was  sorry  for 
all  of  them,  but  that  she  was  not  coming  back  to 
the  Hague.  She  would  provide  for  her  own  main- 
tenance, by  writing.  Italy  was  cheap.  That  was 


142  THE  INEVITABLE 

all  she  wrote.  She  did  not  mention  Duco.  She 
cut  herself  off  from  her  family,  in  thought  and  in 
fact.  She  had  met  with  no  sympathy  from  any  of 
them  during  her  unhappy  marriage,  during  the  pain- 
ful days  of  her  divorce;  and  now,  in  her  turn,  she 
felt  no  affection  for  them.  And  her  happiness  made 
her  partial  and  selfish.  She  wanted  nothing  but 
Duco,  nothing  but  their  harmonious  life  in  common. 
He  sat  working,  laughing  to  her  now  and  then  as 
she  lay  on  the  couch  and  reflected.  She  looked  at 
the  women  marching  to  battle;  she  too  could  not 
remain  lying  on  a  couch,  she  too  would  have  to 
sally  forth  and  fight.  She  foresaw  that  she  would 
have  to  fight  .  .  .  for  him.  He  was  at  present  in 
the  first  fine  frenzy  of  his  art;  but,  if  this  slackened, 
momentarily,  after  a  result  of  some  kind,  after  a 
success  for  himself  and  the  world,  that  would  be 
commonplace  and  logical;  and  then  she  would  have 
to  fight.  He  was  the  noble  element  in  their  two 
lives;  his  art  could  never  become  her  bread-winner. 
His  little  fortune  amounted  to  hardly  anything. 
She  would  have  liked  to  work  and  make  money  for 
both  of  them,  so  that  he  need  not  depart  from 
the  pure  principle  of  his  art.  But  how  was  she  to 
strive,  how  to  work,  how  to  work  for  their  lives  and 
their  bread?  What  could  she  do?  Write?  It 
brought  in  so  little.  What  else?  She  was  over- 
come by  a  slight  melancholy,  because  she  could  do 
so  little.  She  possessed  minor  talents  and  accom- 
plishments: she  wrote  a  good  style,  she  sang,  she 
played  the  piano,  she  could  make  a  blouse  and  she 
knew  something  about  cooking.  She  would  herself 
do  the  cooking  now  and  then  and  would  make  her 
own  clothes.  But  that  was  all  so  small,  so  little. 
Strive?  Work?  In  what  way?  However,  she 
would  do  what  she  could.  And  suddenly  she  took 
up  a  Baedeker,  turned  over  the  pages  and  sat  down 


THE  INEVITABLE  143 

to  write  at  Duco's  writing-table.  She  thought  for  a 
moment  and  began  a  casual  article,  a  travel-picture 
for  a  newspaper,  about  the  environs  of  Naples: 
that  was  easier  than  at  once  beginning  about  Rome. 
And  in  the  studio,  filled  with  a  faint  warmth  of  the 
fire,  because  the  room  faced  north  and  was  chilly, 
everything  became  still  and  silent,  save  for  the  oc- 
casional scratching  of  her  pen  or  the  noise  made  by 
him  when  fumbling  among  his  chalks  and  paint- 
brushes. She  wrote  a  few  pages  but  could  not  hit 
upon  an  ending.  Then  she  got  up;  he  turned  round 
and  smiled  at  her,  with  his  smile  of  friendly  happi- 
ness. 

And  she  read  to  him  what  she  had  written.  It 
was  not  in  the  style  of  her  pamphlet.  It  contained 
no  invective;  it  was  a  pleasant  traveller's  sketch. 

He  thought  it  very  nice,  but  nothing  out  of  the 
way.  But  that  wasn't  necessary,  she  said,  defend- 
ing herself.  And  he  kissed  her,  for  her  industry 
and  her  pluck.  It  was  raining  that  day  and  they 
did  not  go  out  for  their  lunch ;  there  were  eggs  and 
tomatoes  and  she  made  an  omelette  on  an  oil-stove. 
They  drank  water,  ate  quantities  of  bread.  And, 
while  the  rain  outside  lashed  the  great  curtain- 
less  window  of  the  studio,  they  enjoyed  their  re- 
past, sitting  like  two  birds  that  huddle  side  by  side, 
against  each  other,  so  as  not  to  get  wet. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

It  was  a  couple  of  months  after  Easter,  in  the 
spring  days  of  May.  The  flood  of  tourists  had 
ebbed  away  immediately  after  the  great  church  fest- 
ivities; and  Rome  was  already  very  hot  and  grow- 
ing very  quiet.  One  morning,  when  Cornelie  was 
crossing  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  where  the  sunshine 
streamed  along  the  cream-coloured  front  of  the 
Trinita  de'  Monti  and  down  the  monumental  stair- 
case, where  only  a  few  beggars  and  the  very  last 
flower-boy  sat  dreaming  with  blinking  eye-lids  in  a 
shady  corner,  she  saw  the  prince  coming  towards 
her.  He  bowed  to  her  with  a  smile  of  gladness  and 
hastened  up  to  speak  to  her: 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  meet  you !  I  am  in  Rome 
for  a  day  or  two,  on  my  way  to  San  Stefano,  to  see 
my  father  on  business.  Business  is  always  a  bore; 
and  this  is  more  so  than  usual.  Urania  is  at  Nice. 
But  it  is  too  hot  there  and  we  are  going  away.  We 
have  just  returned  from  a  trip  on  the  Mediterranean. 
Four  weeks  on  board  a  friend's  yacht.  It  was  de- 
lightful! Why  did  you  never  come  to  see  us  at 
Nice,  as  Urania  asked  you  to?  " 

"  I  really  wasn't  able  to  come." 

"  I  went  to  call  on  you  yesterday  in  the  Via  dei 
Serpenti.  They  told  me  you  had  moved." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  touch  of  mocking  laugh- 
ter in  his  small,  glittering  eyes.  She  did  not  speak. 

"  After  that  I  did  not  like  to  commit  a  further 
indiscretion,"  he  said,  meaningly.  "  Where  are  you 
going?" 

;t  To  the  post-office." 

144 


THE  INEVITABLE  145 

"May  I  come  with  you?  Isn't  it  too  hot  for 
walking?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  love  the  heat!  Come  by  all  means, 
if  you  like.  How  is  Urania?  " 

'  Very  well,  capital.  She's  capital.  She's  splen- 
did, simply  splendid.  I  should  never  have  thought 
it.  I  should  never  have  dared  to  think  it.  She 
plays  her  part  to  perfection.  So  far  as  she  is  con- 
cerned, I  don't  regret  my  marriage.  But,  for  the 
rest,  Gesu  mio,  what  a  disappointment,  what  a  dis- 
illusion !  " 

"Why?" 

"  You  knew,  did  you  not  —  I  even  now  don't 
know  how  —  you  knew  for  how  many  millions  I 
sold  myself?  Not  five  millions  but  ten  millions. 
Ah,  signora  mia,  what  a  take  in!  You  saw  my 
father-in-law  at  the  time  of  our  wedding.  What  a 
Yankee,  what  a  stocking-merchant  and  what  a 
tradesman!  We're  no  match  for  him:  I,  Papa, 
or  the  marchesa.  First  promises,  contracts :  oh, 
rather!  But  then  haggling  here,  haggling  there. 
We're  no  good  at  that:  neither  Papa  nor  I.  Aunt 
alone  was  able  to  haggle.  But  she  was  no  match 
for  the  stocking-merchant.  She  had  not  learnt  that, 
in  all  the  years  during  which  she  kept  a  boarding- 
house.  Ten  millions?  Five  millions?  Not  three 
millions!  Or  yes,  perhaps  we  did  get  something 
like  that,  plus  a  heap  of  promises,  for  our  children's 
children,  when  everybody's  dead.  Ah,  signora,  sig- 
nora, I  was  better  off  before  I  was  married!  True, 
I  had  debts  then  and  not  now.  But  Urania  is  so 
economical,  so  practical !  I  should  never  have 
thought  it  of  her.  It  has  been  a  disappointment 
to  everybody :  Papa,  my  aunt,  the  monsignori.  You 
should  have  seen  them  together.  They  could  have 
scratched  one  another's  eyes  out.  Papa  almost  had 
a  stroke,  my  aunt  nearly  came  to  blows  with  the 


i46  THE  INEVITABLE 

monsignori.  .  .  .  Ah,  signora,  signora,  I  don't  like 
it!  I  am  a  victim.  Winter  after  winter,  they 
angled  with  me.  But  I  didn't  want  to  be  the  bait, 
I  struggled,  I  wouldn't  let  the  fish  bite.  And  then 
this  came  of  it.  Not  three  millions.  Lire,  not 
dollars.  I  was  so  stupid,  I  thought  at  first  it  would 
be  dollars.  And  Urania's  economy!  She  allows 
me  my  pocket-money.  She  controls  everything, 
does  everything.  She  knows  exactly  how  much  I 
lose  at  the  club.  Yes,  you  may  laugh,  but  it's  sad. 
Don't  you  see  that  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  could 
cry?  And  she  has  such  queer  notions.  For  in- 
stance, we  have  our  flat  a  Nice  and  we  keep  on  my 
rooms  in  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli,  as  a  pied-a-terre  in 
Rome.  That's  enough:  we  don't  come  often  to 
Rome,  because  we  are  '  black '  and  Urania  thinks  it 
dull.  In  the  summer,  we  were  to  go  here  or  there, 
to  some  watering-place.  That  was  all  right,  that 
was  settled.  But  now  Urania  suddenly  conceives 
the  notion  of  selecting  San  Stefano  as  a  summer  resi- 
dence. San  Stefano !  I  ask  you !  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  stand  it.  True,  it's  high  up,  it's  cool:  it's  a 
pleasant  climate,  good,  fresh  mountain  air.  But  I 
need  more  in  my  life  than  mountain  air.  I  can't 
live  on  mountain  air.  Oh,  you  wouldn't  know 
Urania !  She  can  be  so  awfully  obstinate.  It's 
settled  now,  beyond  recall:  in  the  summer,  San 
Stefano.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  she  has  won 
Papa's  heart  by  it.  I  have  to  suffer.  They're  two 
to  one  against  me.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
Urania  says  we  shall  have  to  be  very  economical, 
in  order  to  do  San  Stefano  up  a  bit.  It's  a  fa- 
mous historical  place,  but  fallen  into  grisly  disre- 
pair. It's  not  our  fault:  we  never  had  any  luck. 
There  was  once  a  Forte-Braccio  pope;  after  that 
our  star  declined  and  we  never  had  another  stroke 
of  luck  again.  San  Stefano  is  the  type  of  ruined 


THE  INEVITABLE  147 

greatness.  You  ought  to  see  the  place.  To  econo- 
mize, to  renovate  San  Stefano !  That's  Urania's 
ideal.  She  has  taken  it  into  her  head  to  do  that 
honour  to  our  ancestral  abode.  However,  she  has 
won  Papa's  heart  by  it  and  he  has  recovered  from 
his  stroke.  But  can  you  understand  now  that 
il  povero  Gilio  is  poorer  than  he  was  before  he 
acquired  shares  in  a  Chicago  stocking-factory?  " 

There  was  no  checking  his  flow  of  words.  He 
felt  profoundly  unhappy,  small,  beaten,  tamed,  con- 
quered, destroyed;  and  he  had  a  need  to  ease  his 
heart.  They  had  passed  the  post-office  and  now  re- 
traced their  steps.  He  looked  for  sympathy  from 
Cornelie  and  found  it  in  the  smiling  attention  with 
which  she  listened  to  his  grievances.  She  replied 
that,  after  all,  it  showed  that  Urania  had  a  real 
feeling  for  San  Stefano. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  he  admitted,  humbly.  "  She  is  very 
good.  I  should  never  have  thought  it.  She  is 
every  inch  a  princess  and  duchess.  It's  splendid. 
But  the  ten  millions :  gone,  an  illusion !  .  .  .  But  tell 
me :  how  well  you're  looking !  Each  time  I  see  you, 
you've  grown,  lovelier  and  lovelier.  Do  you  know 
that  you're  a  very  lovely  woman?  You  must  be 
very  happy,  I'm  certain!  You're  an  exceptional 
woman,  I  always  said  so.  I  don't  understand  you. 
.  .  .  May  I  speak  frankly?  Are  we  good  friends, 
you  and  I  ?  I  don't  understand.  I  think  what  you 
have  done  such  a  terrible  thing.  I  have  never  heard 
of  anything  like  it  in  our  world." 

"  I  don't  live  in  your  world,  prince." 

"  Very  well,  but  all  the  same  your  world  must 
have  much  the  same  ideas  about  it.  And  the  calm- 
ness, the  pride,  the  happiness  with  which  you  do, 
just  quietly,  as  you  please!  I  think  it  perfectly 
awful.  I  stand  aghast  at  it.  ...  And  yet  .  .  . 
it's  a  pity.  People  in  my  world  are  very  easy- 


148  THE  INEVITABLE 

going.     But  that  sort  of  thing  is  not  allowed!  " 

"  Prince,  once  more,  I  have  no  world.  My  world 
is  my  own  sphere." 

"  I  don't  understand  that.  Tell  me,  how  am  I  to 
tell  Urania  ?  For  I  should'think  it  delightful  if  you 
would  come  and  stay  at  San  Stefano.  Oh,  do  come, 
do:  come  to  keep  us  company.  I  entreat  you.  Be 
charitable,  do  a  good  work.  .  .  .  But  first  tell  me, 
how  shall  I  tell  Urania?  " 

She  laughed: 
'What?" 

"  What  they  told  me  in  the  Via  del  Serpenti,  that 
your  address  was  now  Signer  van  der  Staal's  studio, 
Via  del  Babuino." 

Laughing,  she  looked  at  him  almost  pityingly: 

"  It  is  too  difficult  for  you  to  tell  her,"  she  re- 
plied, a  little  condescendingly.  "  I  will  myself  write 
to  Urania  and  explain  my  conduct." 

He  was  evidently  relieved: 

"That's  delightful,  capital!  And  .  .  .  will  you 
come  to  San  Stefano?  " 

11  No,  I  can't  really." 

"Why  not?" 

u  I  can  no  longer  move  in  the  circle  in  which  you 
live,  after  my  change  of  address,"  she  said,  half 
laughing,  half  seriously. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders : 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  You  know  our  Roman 
society.  So  long  as  certain  conventions  are  ob- 
served .  .  .  everything's  permitted." 

"  Exactly;  but  it's  just  those  conventions  which  I 
don't  observe." 

"  And  that's  where  you  are  wrong.  Believe  me, 
I  am  saying  it  as  your  friend." 

"  I  live  according  to  my  own  laws  and  I  don't 
want  to  move  in  your  world." 

He  folded  his  hands  in  entreaty: 


THE  INEVITABLE  149 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  You  are  a  '  new  woman.' 
You  have  your  own  laws.  But  I  beseech  you,  take 
pity  on  me.  Be  an  angel  of  mercy  and  come  to  San 
Stefano." 

She  seemed'  to  hear  a  note  of  seduction  in  his 
voice  and  therefore  said: 

"  Prince,  even  if  it  agreed  with  the  conventions 
of  your  world  .  .  .  even  then  I  shouldn't  wish  to. 
For  I  will  not  leave  Van  der  Staal." 

"  You  come  first  and  let  him  come  a  little  later. 
Urania  will  be  glad  to  have  his  advice  on  some 
artistic  questions,  concerning  the  4  doing  up  '  of  San 
Stefano.  We  have  a  lot  of  pictures  there.  And  old 
things  generally.  Do  let'«  arrange  that.  I  am 
going  to  San  Stefano  to-morrow.  Urania  will  fol- 
low me  in  a  week.  I  will  suggest  to  her  to  ask  you 
down  soon." 

"  Really,  prince  ...  it  can't  happen  just  yet." 

"Why  not?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  some  time  before  answer- 
ing: 

"  Shall  I  be  candid  with  you?  " 

"  But  of  course  1  " 

They  had  already  passed  the  post-office  twice. 
The  street  was  quite  silent  and  deserted.  He 
looked  at  her  enquiringly. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  "  we  are  in  great  financial 
difficulties.  We  have  no  money  at  present.  I  have 
lost  my  little  capital;  and  the  small  sum  which  I 
earned  by  writing  an  article  is  spent.  Duco  is 
working  hard,  but  he  is  engaged  on  a  big  work  and 
making  nothing  in  the  meantime.  He  expects  to 
receive  a  bit  of  money  in  a  month  or  so.  But  at  the 
moment  we  have  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  That  is 
why  I  went  to  a  shop  by  the  Tiber  this  morning  to 
ask  how  much  a  dealer  would  give  for  a  couple  of 
old  pictures  which  Duco  wants  to  sell.  He  doesn't 


150  THE  INEVITABLE 

like  parting  with  them,  but  there's  no  help  for  it. 
So  you  see  that  I  can't  come.  I  should  not  care  to 
leave  him;  besides,  I  should  not  have  the  money  for 
the  journey  or  a  decent  wardrobe." 

He  looked  at  her.  The  first  thing  that  he  had 
noticed  was  her  new  and  blooming  loveliness;  now 
he  noticed  that  her  skirt  was  a  little  worn  and  her 
blouse  none  too  fresh,  though  she  wore  a  couple  of 
roses  in  the  waist-band. 

"  Gesu  miof"  he  exclaimed.  "And  you  tell  me 
that  so  calmly,  so  quietly!  " 

She  smiled  and  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  Moan  and 
groan  about  it?  " 

"  But  you  are  a  woman  ...  a  woman  to  revere 
and  respect!  "  he  cried.  "  How  does  Van  der  Staal 
take  it?" 

"  He  is  a  bit  depressed,  of  course.  He  has  never 
known  money  trouble.  And  it  hinders  him  from 
employing  his  full  talent.  But  I  hope  to  help  him 
bear  up  during  this  difficult  time.  So  you  see, 
prince,  that  I  can't  come  to  San  Stefano." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  write  to  us?  Why  not  ask 
us  for  money?  " 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  but  the  idea 
never  even  occurred  to  us." 

"Too  proud?" 

"  Yes,  too  proud." 

"  But  what  a  position  to  be  in !  What  can  I  do 
for  you?  May  I  give  you  two  hundred  lire?  I 
have  two  hundred  lire  on  me.  And  I  will  tell 
Urania  that  I  gave  it  to  you." 

"  No,  thank  you,  prince.  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you,  but  I  can't  accept  it."  * 

"  Not  from  me?  " 

"  No." 

"Not  from  Urania?" 


THE  INEVITABLE  151 

"  Not  from  her  either." 
;'  Why  not?  " 

"  I  want  to  earn  my  money  and  I  can't  accept 
alms." 

"  A  fine  principle.     But  for  the  moment  .  .  ." 

"  I  remain  true  to  it." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  tell  you  something?  " 

"What?" 

"  I  admire  you.     More  than  that:  I  love  you." 

She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand  and  wrinkled 
her  brows. 

"Why  mayn't  I  tell  you  so?  An  Italian  does 
not  keep  his  love  concealed.  I  love  you.  You  are 
more  beautiful  and  nobler  and  superior  to  anything 
that  I  could  ever  imagine  any  Woman  to  be.  ... 
Don't  be  angry  with  me :  I  am  not  asking  anything 
of  you.  I  am  a  bad  lot,  but  at  this  moment  I  really 
feel  the  sort  of  thing  that  you  see  in  our  old  family- 
portraits,  an  atom  of  chivalry  which  has  survived 
by  accident.  I  ask  for  nothing  from  you.  I  merely 
tell  you  —  and  I  say  it  in  Urania's  name  as  well  as 
my  own  —  that  you  can  always  rely  on  us.  Urania 
will  be  angry  that  you  haven't  written  to  us." 

They  now  entered  the  post-office  and  she  bought 
a  few  stamps : 

"  There  go  my  last  soldi,"  she  said,  laughing  and 
showing  her  empty  purse.  "  We  wanted  the  stamps 
to  write  to  the  secretary  of  an  exhibition  in  London. 
Are  you  seeing  me  home?  " 

She  saw  suddenly  that  he  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Do  accept  two  hundred  lire  from  me !  "  he  en- 
treated. 

She  smilingly  shook  her  head. 

"  Are  you  dining  at  home?  "  he  asked. 

She  gave  him  a  quizzing  look: 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 


152  THE  INEVITABLE 

He  was  unwilling  to  ask  any  further  questions, 
was  afraid  lest  he  should  wound  her: 

"  Be  kind,"  he  said,  "  and  dine  with  me  this  eve- 
ning. I'm  bored.  I  have  no  friends  in  Rome  at 
the  moment.  Everybody  is  away.  Not  at  the 
Grand-Hotel,  but  in  a  snug  little  restaurant,  where 
they  know  me.  I'll  come  and  fetch  you  at  seven 
o'clock.  Do  be  nice  and  come !  For  my  sake  1  " 

He  could  not  restrain  his  tears. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  she  said,  softly,  with  her 
smile. 

They  were  standing  in  the  porch  of  the  house  in 
the  Via  del  Babuino  where  the  studio  was.  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  pressed  a  fervent 
kiss  upon  it.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat  and  hurried 
away.  She  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  mastering 
her  emotion  before  she  entered  the  studio. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

She  found  Duco  lying  listlessly  on  the  sofa.  He 
had  a  bad  headache  and  she  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"  The  man  offered  me  eighty  lire  for  the 
Memmo,"  she  said,  "  but  he  declared  that  the  panel 
was  not  by  Gentile  da  Fabriano:  he  remembered 
having  seen  it  here." 

"  The  man's  crazy,"  he  replied.  "  Or  else  he  is 
trying  to  get  my  Gentile  for  nothing.  .  .  .  Cornelie, 
I  really  can't  sell  it." 

"  Well,  Duco,  then  we'll  think  of  something  else," 
said  she,  laying  her  hand  on  his  aching  forehead. 

"  Perhaps  one  or  two  smaller  things,  a  knickknack 
or  two,"  he  moaned. 

"  Perhaps.  Shall  I  go  back  to  him  this  after- 
noon? " 

"  No,  no,  I'll  go.  But,  really  it  is  easier  to  buy 
that  sort  of  thing  than  to  sell  it." 

"  That  is  so,  Duco,"  she  agreed,  laughing.  "  But 
I  asked  yesterday  what  I  should  get  for  a  pair  of 
bracelets;  and  I'll  dispose  of  those  to-day.  And 
that  will  keep  us  going  for  quite  a  month.  But  I 
have  some  news  for  you.  Do  you  know  whom  I 
met?" 

"  No." 

"  The  prince." 

He  gave  a  scowl: 

"  I  don't  like  that  cad,"  he  said. 

"  I've  told  you  before,  Duco.  I  don't  consider 
him  a  cad.  And  I  don't  believe  he  is  one  either. 

153 


154  THE  INEVITABLE 

He  asked  us  to  dine  with  him  this  evening,  quite 
quietly." 

"  No,  I  don't  care  about  it." 

She  said  nothing.  She  stood  up,  boiled  some 
water  on  a  spirit-stand  and  made  tea : 

"  Duco  dear,  I've  been  careless  about  lunch.  A 
cup  of  tea  and  some  bread-and-butter  is  all  I  can 
give  you.  Are  you  very  hungry?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  evasively. 

She  hummed  a  tune  while  she  poured  out  the  tea 
into  an  antique  cup.  She  cut  the  bread-and-butter 
and  brought  it  to  him  on  the  sofa.  Then  she  sat 
down  beside  him,  with  her  own  cup  in  her  hand. 

"  Cornelie,  hadn't  we  better  lunch  at  the  oste- 
ria?" 

She  laughed  and  showed  him  her  empty  purse : 

"  Here  are  the  stamps,"  she  said. 

Disheartened,  he  flung  himself  back  on  the  cush- 
ions. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  continued,  "  don't  be  so 
down.  I  shall  have  some  money  this  afternoon,  for 
the  bracelets.  I  ought  to  have  sold  them  sooner. 
Really,  Duco,  it's  not  of  any  importance.  Why 
haven't  you  been  working?  It  would  have  cheered 
you  up." 

"  I  didn't  feel  inclined  and  I  had  a  headache." 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  said : 

"  The  prince  was  angry  that  we  didn't  write  and 
ask  him  to  help  us.  He  wanted  to  give  me  two  hun- 
dred lire  .  .  ." 

"  You  refused,  surely?  "  he  asked,  fiercely. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  she  answered,  calmly.  "  He 
invited  us  to  stay  at  San  Stefano,  where  they  will 
be  spending  the  summer.  I  refused  that  too." 

;'Why?" 

"  I  haven't  the  clothes.  .  .  .  But  you  wouldn't 
care  to  go,  would  you?  " 


THE  INEVITABLE  155 

"  No,"  he  said,  dully. 

She  drew  his  head  to  her  and  stroked  his  fore- 
head. A  wide  patch  of  reflected  afternoon  light 
fell  through  the  studio-window  from  the  blue  sky 
outside;  and  the  studio  was  like  a  confused  swirl 
of  dusty  colour,  in  which  the  outlines  stood  forth 
with  their  arrested  action  and  changeless  emo- 
tion. The  raised  embroideries  of  the  chasubles  and 
stoles,  the  purples  and  sky-blues  of  Gentile's  panel, 
the  mystic  luxury  of  Memmi's  angel  in  his  cloak  of 
heavily-pleated  brocade,  with  the  golden  lily-stem 
between  his  fingers,  were  like  a  hoard  of  colour 
and  flashed  in  that  reflected  light  like  so  many  hand- 
fuls  of  jewels.  On  the  easel  stood  the  water-colour 
of  The  Banners,  with  its  noble  refinement.  And, 
as  they  sat  on  the  sofa,  he  leaning  his  head  against 
her,  both  drinking  their  tea,  they  harmonized  in  their 
happiness  with  that  background  of  art.  And  it 
seemed  incredible  that  they  should  be  worried  about 
a  couple  of  hundred  lire,  for  they  were  surrounded 
by  colour  as  of  precious  stones  and  her  smile  was  still 
radiant.  But  his  eyes  were  dejected  and  his  hand 
hung  limply  by  his  side. 

She  went  out  again  that  afternoon  for  a  little 
while,  but  soon  returned  again,  saying  that  she  had 
sold  the  bracelets  and  that  he  need  not  worry  any 
longer.  And  she  sang  and  moved  gaily  about  the 
studio.  She  had  made  a  few  purchases :  an  almond- 
tart,  biscuits  and  a  small  bottle  of  port.  She  had 
carried  the  things  home  herself,  in  a  little  basket, 
ajjd  she  sang  as  she  unpacked  them.  Her  liveliness 
cheered  him;  he  stood  up  and  suddenly  sat  down  to 
The  Banners.  He  looked  at  the  light  and  thought 
that  he  would  be  able  to  work  for  an  hour  longer. 
He  was  filled  with  transport  as  he  contemplated  the 
drawing:  he  saw  a  great  deal  that  was  good  in  it, 
a  great  deal  that  was  beautiful.  It  was  both  spa- 


156  THE  INEVITABLE 

clous  and  delicate;  it  was  modern  and  yet  free  of  any 
modern  trues;  there  was  thought  in  it  and  yet  purity 
of  line  and  grouping.  And  the  colours  were  restful 
and  dignified:  purple  and  grey  and  white;  violet  and 
pale-grey  and  bright  white;  dusk,  twilight,  light; 
night,  dawn,  day.  The  day  especially,  the  day  dawn- 
ing high  up  yonder,  was  a  day  of  white,  self-conscious 
sunlight:  a  bright  certitude,  in  which  the  future  be- 
came clear.  But  as  a  cloud  were  the  streamers, 
pennants,  flags,  banners,  waving  in  heraldic  beauty 
above  the  heads  of  the  militant  women  uplifted  in 
ecstasy.  .  .  .  He  selected  his  colours,  chose  his 
brushes,  worked  zealously,  until  there  was  no  light 
left.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  her,  happy  and  con- 
tented. In  the  falling  dusk  they  drank  some  of  the 
port,  ate  some  of  the  tart.  He  felt  like  it,  he  said; 
he  was  hungry.  .  .  . 

At  seven  o'clock  there  was  a  knock.  He  started 
up  and  opened  the  door;  the  prince  entered.  Duco's 
forehead  clouded  over;  but  the  prince  did  not  per- 
ceive it,  in  the  twilit  studio.  Cornelie  lit  a  lamp : 

"  Scusi,  prince,"  she  said.  "  I  am  positively  dis- 
tressed: Duco  does  not  care  to  ,go  out  —  he  has 
been  working  and  is  tired  —  and  I  had  no  one  to 
send  and  tell  you  that  we  could  not  accept  your  in- 
vitation." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  that,  surely !  I  had  reck- 
oned so  absolutely  on  having  you  both  to  dinner  1 
What  shall  I  do  with  my  evening  if  you  don't 
come !  " 

And,  bursting  into  a  flow  of  language,  the  com- 
plaints of  a  spoiled  child,  the  entreaties  of  an  in- 
dulged boy,  he  began  to  persuade  Duco,  who  re- 
mained unwilling  and  sullen.  At  last  Duco  rose, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  but,  with  a  compassionate, 
almost  insulting  smile,  yielded.  But  he  was  unable 
to  suppress  his  sense  of  unwillingness;  his  jealousy 


THE  INEVITABLE  157 

because  of  the  quick  repartees  of  Cornelie  and  the 
prince  remained  unassuaged,  like  an  inward  pain. 
At  the  restaurant  he  was  silent  at  first.  Then  he 
made  an  effort  to  join  in  the  conversation,  remem- 
bering what  Cornelie  had  said  to  him  on  that  mo- 
mentous day  at  the  osteria:  that  she  loved  him, 
Duco ;  that  she  did  not  even  compare  the  prince  with 
him;  but  .  .  .  that  he  was  not  cheerful  or  witty. 
And,  conscious  of  his  superiority  because  of  that 
recollection,  he  displayed  a  smiling  superciliousness 
towards  the  prince,  for  all  his  jealousy,  condescend- 
ing slightly  and  suffering  his  pleasantry  and  his  flir- 
tation, because  it  amused  Cornelie,  that  clashing 
interplay  of  swift  words  and  short,  parrying  phrases, 
like  the  dialogue  in  a  French  comedy. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  prince  was  to  leave  for  San  Stefano  next  day; 
and  early  in  the  morning  Cornelie  sent  him  the  fol- 
lowing letter : 

"  MY  DEAR  PRINCE, 

"  I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you.  Yesterday  you 
were  so  good  as  to  offer  me  help.  I  thought  then 
that  I  was  in  a  position  to  decline  your  kind  offer. 
But  I  hope  that  you  will  not  think  me  very  change- 
able if  I  come  to  you  to-day  with  this  request :  lend 
me  what  you  offered  yesterday  to  give  me. 

"  Lend  me  two  hundred  lire.  I  hope  to  be  able 
to  repay  you  as  soon  as  possible.  Of  course  it  need 
not  be  a  secret  from  Urania ;  but  don't*  let  Duco 
know.  I  tried  to  sell  my  bracelets  yesterday,  but 
sold  only  one  and  received  very  little  for  it.  The 
goldsmith  offered  me  far  too  little,  but  I  had  to  let 
him  have  one  at  forty  lire,  for  I  had  not  a  soldo 
left !  And  so  I  am  writing  to  appeal  to  your  friend- 
ship and  to  ask  you  to  put  the  two  hundred  lire  in  an 
envelope  and  let  me  come  and  fetch  it  myself  from 
the  porter.  Pray  receive  my  sincere  thanks  in  ad- 
vance. 

"  What  a  pleasant  evening  you  gave  us  yesterday! 
A  couple  of  hours'  cheerful  talk  like  that,  at  a  well- 
chosen  dinner,  does  me  good.  However  happy  I 
may  be,  our  present  position  of  financial  anxiety 
sometimes  depresses  me,  though  I  keep  up  my  spi- 

158 


THE  INEVITABLE  159 

rits  for  Duco's  sake.  Money  worries  interfere  with 
his  work  and  impair  his  energy.  So  I  discuss  them 
with  him  as  little  as  I  can;  and  I  particularly  beg 
you  not  to  let  him  into  our  little  secret. 

"  Once  more,  my  best  and  most  sincere  thanks. 

"  CORNELIE  DE  RETZ." 

When  she  left  the  house  that  morning,  she  went 
straight  to  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli: 

"  Has  his  excellency  gone?  " 

The  porter  bowed  respectively  and  confidentially: 

"  An  hour  ago,  signora.  His  excellency  left  a 
letter  and  a  parcel  for  me  to  give  you  if  you  should 
call.  Permit  me  to  fetch  them." 

He  went  away  and  soon  returned;  he  handed  Cor- 
nelie  the  parcel  and  the  letter. 

She  walked  down  a  side-street  turning  out  of  the 
Corso,  opened  the  envelope  and  found  a  few  bank- 
notes and  this  letter: 

"  MOST  HONOURED  LADY, 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  applied  to  me  at 
last;  and  Urania  also  will  approve.  I  feel  I  am 
acting  in  accordance  with  her  wishes  when  I  send 
you  not  two  hundred  but  a  thousand  lire,  with  the 
most  humble  request  that  you  will  accept  it  and  keep 
it  as  long  as  you  please,  for  of  course  I  dare  not 
ask  you  to  take  it  as  a  present.  Nevertheless  I  am 
making  so  bold  as  to  send  you  a  keepsake.  When 
I  read  that  you  were  compelled  to  sell  a  bracelet,  I 
hated  the  idea  so  that,  without  stopping  to  think,  I 
ran  round  to  Marchesini's  and,  as  best  I  could, 
picked  you  out  a  bracelet  which,  at  your  feet,  I  en- 
treat you  to  accept.  You  must  not  refuse  your 
friend  this.  Let  my  bracelet  be  a  secret  from  Ura- 
nia as  well  as  from  Van  der  Staal. 

"  Once  more  receive  my  sincere  thanks  for  deign- 


160  THE  INEVITABLE 

ing  to  apply  to  me  for  aid  and  be  assured  that  I 
attach  the  highest  value  to  this  mark  of  favour. 
"  Your  most  humble  servant, 

"  VIRGILIO  DI  F.  B." 

Cornelie  opened  the  parcel  and  found  a  velvet 
case  containing  a  bracelet  in  the  Etruscan  style:  a 
narrow  gold  band  set  with  pearls  and  sapphires. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

In  those  hot  May  days,  the  big  studio  facing 
north  was  cool  while  the  town  outside  was  scorching. 
Duco  and  Cornelie  did  not  go  out  before  nightfall, 
when  it  was  time  to  think  of  dining  somewhere. 
Rome  was  quiet:  Roman  society  had  fled;  the  tour- 
ists had  migrated.  They  saw  nobody  and  their 
days  glided  past.  He  worked  diligently;  The  Ban- 
ners was  finished:  the  two  of  them,  with  their  arms 
around  each  other's  waists  and  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  would  sit  in  front  of  it,  proudly  smiling, 
during  the  last  days  before  the  drawing  was  to  be 
sent  to  the  International  Exhibition  in  Knights- 
bridge.  Their  feeling  for  each  other  had  never  con- 
tained such  pure  harmony,  such  unity  of  concord, 
as  now,  when  his  work  was  done.  He  felt  that  he 
had  never  worked  so  nobly,  so  firmly,  so  unhesi- 
tatingly, never  with  the  same  strength,  yet  never  so 
tenderly;  and  he  was  grateful  to  her  for  it.  He 
confessed  to  her  that  he  could  never  have  worked 
like  that  if  she  had  not  thought  with  him  and  felt 
with  him  in  their  long  hours  of  sitting  and  gazing  at 
the  procession,  the  pageant  of  women,  as  it  wound 
out  of  the  night  of  crumbling  pillars  to  the  city  of 
sheer  increasing  radiance  and  gleaming  palaces  of 
glass.  There  was  rest  in  his  soul,  now  that  he  had 
worked  so  greatly  and  nobly.  There  was  pride  in 
them  both:  pride  because  of  their  life,  their  inde- 
pendence, because  of  that  work  of  noble  and  stately 
art.  In  their  happiness  there  was  much  that  was 
arbitrary;  they  looked  down  upon  people,  the  multi- 
tude, the  world;  and  this  was  especially  true  of  him. 

161 


1 62  THE  INEVITABLE 

In  her  there  was  more  of  quietude  and  humility, 
though  outwardly  she  showed  herself  as  proud  as 
he.  Her  article  on  The  Social  Position  of  Divorced 
Women  had  been  published  in  pamphlet  form  and 
made  a  success.  But  her  own  performance  did  not 
make  her  proud  as  Duco's  art  made  her  proud,  proud 
of  him  and  of  their  life  and  their  happiness. 

While  she  read  in  the  Dutch  papers  and  maga- 
zines the  reviews  of  her  pamphlet  —  often  display- 
ing opposition  but  never  any  slight  and  always  ac- 
knowledging her  authority  to  speak  on  the  question 
—  while  she  read  her  pamphlet  through  again,  a 
doubt  arose  within  her  of  her  own  conviction.  She 
felt  how  difficult  it  was  to  fight  with  a  single  mind 
for  a  cause,  as  those  symbolic  women  in  the  drawing 
marched  to  the  fight.  She  felt  that  what  she  had 
written  was  inspired  by  her  own  experience,  by  her 
own  suffering  and  by  these  only;  she  saw  that  she 
had  generalized  her  own  sense  of  life  and  suffering, 
but  without  deeper  insight  into  the  essence  of  those 
things:  not  from  pure  conviction,  but  from  anger 
and  resentment;  not  from  reflection,  but  after  melan- 
choly musing  upon  her  own  fate;  not  from  her  love 
of  her  fellow-women,  but  from  a  petty  hatred  of 
society.  And  she  remembered  Duco's  silence  at  that 
time,  his  mute  disapproval,  his  intuitive  feeling  that 
the  source  of  her  excitement  was  not  pure,  but  the 
bitter  and  turbid  spring  of  her  own  experience.  She 
now  respected  his  intuition;  she  now  perceived  the 
essential  purity  of  his  character;  she  now  felt  that 
he  —  because  of  his  art  —  was  high,  noble,  without 
ulterior  motives  in  his  actions,  creating  beauty  for 
its  own  sake.  But  she  also  felt  that  she  had  roused 
him  to  it.  That  was  her  pride  and  her  happiness; 
and  she  loved  him  more  dearly  for  it.  But  about 
herself  she  was  humble.  She  was  conscious  of  her 
femininity,  of  all  the  complexity  of  her  soul,  which 


THE  INEVITABLE  163 

prevented  her  from  continuing  to  fight  for  the  ob- 
jects of  the  feminist  movement.  And  she  thought 
again  of  her  education,  of  her  husband,  her  short 
but  sad  married  life  .  .  .  and  she  thought  of  the 
prince.  She  felt  herself  so  complex  and  she  would 
gladly  have  been  homogeneous.  She  swayed  be- 
tween contradiction  and  contradiction  and  she  con- 
fessed to  herself  that  she  did  not  know  herself.  It 
gave  a  tinge  of  melancholy  to  her  days  of  happiness. 

The  prince  .  .  .  was  not  her  pride  only  apparent 
that  she  had  asked  him  not  to  tell  Urania  that  she 
was  living  with  Duco,  because  she  would  tell  her  so 
herself?  In  reality,  she  feared  Urania's  opinion. 
.  .  .  She  was  troubled  by  the  dishonesty  of  the  life: 
she  called  the  intersections  of  the  line  with  the  lines 
of  other  small  people  the  petty  life.  Why,  so  soon 
as  she  crossed  one  of  these  intersections,  did  she  feel, 
as  though  by  instinct,  that  honesty  was  not  always 
wise?  What  became  of  her  pride  and  her  dignity 
—  not  apparently,  but  actually  —  from  the  moment 
that  she  feared  Urania's  criticism,  from  the  mo- 
ment that  she  feared  lest  this  criticism  might  be  un- 
favourable to  her  in  one  respect  or  another?  And 
why  did  she  not  speak  of  Virgilio's  bracelet  to  Duco? 
She  did  not  speak  of  the  thousand  lire  because  she 
knew  that  money  matters  depressed  him  and  that 
he  did  not  want  to  borrow  from  the  prince,  because, 
if  he  knew  about  it,  he  would  not  be  able  to  work 
free  from  care;  and  her  concealment  had  been  for 
a  noble  object.  But  why  did  she  not  speak  of  Gilio's 
bracelet?  .  .  . 

She  did  not  know.  Once  or  twice  she  had  tried 
to  say,  just  naturally  and  casually: 

"  Look,  I've  had  this  from  the  prince,  because  I 
sold  that  one  bracelet." 

But  she  was  not  able  to  say  it,  she  did  not  know 
why.  Was  it  because  of  Duco's  jealousy?  She 


1 64  THE  INEVITABLE 

didn't  know,  she  didn't  know.  She  felt  that  it  would 
make  for  peace  and  tranquillity  if  she  said  nothing 
about  the  bracelet  and  did  not  wear  it.  Really  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  send  it  back  to  the  prince. 
But  she  thought  that  unkind,  after  all  his  readiness 
to  assist  her. 

And  Duco  ...  he  thought  that  she  had  sold  the 
bracelets  for  a  good  sum,  he  knew  that  she  had  re- 
ceived money  from  the  publisher,  for  her  pamphlet. 
He  asked  no  further  questions  and  ceased  to  think 
about  money.  They  lived  very  simply.  .  .  .  But 
still  she  disliked  his  not  knowing,  even  though  it 
had  been  good  for  his  work  that  he  had  not  known. 

These  were  little  things.  These  were  little  clouds 
in  the  golden  skies  of  their  great  and  noble  life,  their 
life  of  which  they  were  proud.  And  she  alone  saw 
them.  And,  when  she  saw  his  eyes,  radiant  with  the 
pride  of  life;  when  she  heard  his  voice,  vibrating 
with  his  new  assured  energy  and  pride;  and  when, 
she  felt  his  embrace,  in  which  she  felt  the  thrill  of 
his  delight  in  the  happiness  which  she  brought  him, 
then  she  no  longer  saw  the  little  clouds,  then  she 
felt  her  own  thrill  of  delight  in  the  happiness  which 
he  had  brought  her  and  she  loved  him  so  passion- 
ately that  she  could  have  died  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Urania  wrote  most  charmingly.  She  said  that 
they  were  having  a  very  quiet  time  with  the  old 
prince  at  San  Stefano,  as  they  were  not  inviting 
visitors  because  the  castle  was  too  gloomy,  too 
shabby,  too  lonely,  but  that  she  would  think  it  most 
delightful  if  Cornelie  would  come  and  spend  a  few 
weeks  with  them.  She  added  that  she  would  send 
Mr.  van  der  Staal  an  invitation  as  well.  The  letter 
was  addressed  to  the  Via  dei  Serpenti  and  forwarded 
to  Cornelie  from  there.  She  understood  from  this 
that  Gilio  had  not  mentioned  that  she  was  living  in 
Duco's  studio  and  she  understood  also  that  Urania 
accepted  their  liaison  without  criticizing  it.  ... 

The  Banners  had  been  dispatched  to  London; 
and,  now  that  Duco  was  no  longer  working,  a  slight 
indolence  and  a  vague  boredom  hung  about  the 
studio,  which  was  still  cool,  while  the  town  was 
scorching.  And  Cornelie  wrote  to  Urania  that  she 
was  very  glad  to  accept  and  promised  to  come  in  a 
week's  time.  She  was  pleased  that  she  would  meet 
no  other  guests  at  the  castle,  for  she  had  no  dresses 
for  a  country-house  visit.  But  with  her  usual  tact 
she  freshened  up  her  wardrobe,  without  spending 
much  money.  This  took  up  all  the  intervening  days ; 
and  she  sat  sewing  while  Duco  lay  on  the  sofa  and 
smoked  cigarettes.  He  also  had  accepted,  because 
of  Cornelie  and  because  the  district  around  the  Lake 
of  San  Stefano,  which  was  overlooked  by  the  castle, 
attracted  him.  He  promised  Cornelie  with  a  smile 
not  to  be  so  stiff.  He  would  do  his  best  to  make 
himself  agreeable.  He  looked  down  rather  haught- 

165 


1 66  THE  INEVITABLE 

ily  on  the  prince.  He  considered  him  a  scallywag, 
but  no  longer  a  bounder  or  a  cad.  He  thought  him 
childish,  but  not  base  or  ignoble. 

Cornelie  went  off.  He  took  her  to  the  station. 
In  the  cab  she  kissed  him  fondly  and  told  him  how 
much  she  would  miss  him  during  those  few  days. 
Would  he  come  soon?  In  a  week?  She  would 
be  longing  for  him:  she  could  not  do  without  him. 
She  looked  deep  into  his  eyes,  which  she  loved. 
He  also  said  that  he  would  be  terribly  bored  with- 
out her.  Couldn't  he  come  earlier,  she  asked.  No, 
Urania  had  fixed  the  date. 

When  he  helped  her  into  a  second-class  compart- 
ment, she  felt  sad  to  be  going  without  him.  The 
carriage  was  full;  she  occupied  the  last  vacant  seat. 
She  sat  between  a  fat  peasant  and  an  old  peasant- 
woman;  the  man  civilly  helped  her  to  put  her  little 
portmanteau  in  the  rack  and  asked  whether  she 
minded  if  he  smoked  his  pipe.  She  civilly  answered 
no.  Opposite  them  sat  two  priests  in  frayed  cas- 
socks. An  unimportant-looking  little  brown  wooden 
box  was  lying  between  their  feet:  it  was  the  su- 
preme unction,  which  they  were  taking  to  a  dying 
person. 

The  peasant  entered  into  conversation  with  Cor- 
nelie, asked  if  she  was  a  foreigner:  English,  no 
doubt?  The  old  peasant-woman  offered  her  a  tan- 
gerine orange. 

The  remainder  of  the  compartment  was  occupied 
by  a  middle-class  family:  father,  mother,  a  small 
boy  and  two  little  sisters.  The  slow  train  shook, 
rattled  and  wound  its  way  along,  stopping  con- 
stantly. The  little  girls  kept  on  humming  tunes. 
At  one  station  a  lady  stepped  out  of  a  first-class 
carriage  with  a  little  girl  of  five,  in  a  white  frock 
and  a  hat  with  white  ostrich-feathers. 

"  Oh,    che    bellezza! "    cried    the     small    boy. 


THE  INEVITABLE  167 

"Mamma,  mamma,  look!  Isn't  she  beautiful? 
Isn't  she  lovely?  Divinamente!  Oh  .  .  .  mamma!  " 

He  closed  his  black  eyes,  lovelorn,  dazzled  by  the 
little  white  girl  of  five.  The  parents  laughed,  the 
priests  laughed,  everybody  laughed.  But  the  boy 
was  not  at  all  confused: 

"  Era  una  bellezza!  "  he  repeated  once  more,  cast- 
ing a  glance  of  conviction  all  around  him. 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  train.  Outside,  the  mount- 
ains gleamed  white  on  the  horizon  and  glittered  like 
a  fire  with  opal  reflections.  Close  to  the  railway 
stood  a  row  of  eucalyptus-trees,  skkle-leaved,  brew- 
ing a  heavy  perfume.  On  the  dry,  sun-scorched 
plain,  the  wild  cattle  grazed,  lifting  their  black 
curly  heads  with  indifference  to  the  train.  In  the 
stifling,  stewing  heat,  the  passengers'  drowsy  heads 
nodded  up  and  down,  while  a  smell  of  sweat,  tobacco- 
smoke  and  orange-peel  mingled  with  the  scent  of 
the  eucalyptuses  outside.  The  train  swung  round 
a  curve,  rattling  like  a  toy-train  of  tin  coaches  al- 
most tumbling  over  one  another.  And  a  level 
stretch  of  unruffled  lazulite  —  metallic,  crystalline, 
sky-blue  —  came  into  view,  spreading  into  an  oval 
goblet  between  slopes  of  mountain-land,  like  a 
very  deep-set  vase  in  which  a  sacred  fluid  was 
kept  very  blue  and  pure  and  motionless  by  a  wall 
of  rocky  hills,  which  rose  higher  and  higher  un- 
til, as  the  train  swung  and  rattled  round  the  clear 
goblet,  at  one  lofty  point  a  castle  stood,  coloured 
like  the  rocks,  broad,  massive  and  monastic,  with  the 
cloisters  running  down  the  slope.  It  rose  in  noble 
and  sombre  melancholy;  and  frcnt  the  train  one 
could  hardly  distinguish  what  was  rock  and  what  was 
building-stone,  as  though  it  were  all  one  barbaric 
growth,  as  though  the  castle  had  grown  naturally 
out  of  the  rock  and,  in  growing,  had  assumed  some- 
thing of  the  shape  of  a  human  dwelling  of  the  earliest 


1 68  THE  INEVITABLE 

times.  And,  as  though  the  oval  with  its  divine  blue 
water  had  been  a  sacred  reservoir,  the  mountains 
hedged  in  the  Lake  of  San  Stefano  and  the  castle 
rose  as  its  gloomy  guardian. 

The  train  wound  along  a  curve  by  the  water-side, 
swung  round  a  bend,  then  round  another  and 
stopped:  San  Stefano.  It  was  a  small,  quiet  town, 
lying  sleepily  in  the  sun,  without  life  or  traffic, 
and  visited  only  in  the  winter  by  day-trippers,  who 
came  from  Rome  to  see  the  cathedral  and  the  castle 
and  tasted  the  wine  of  the  country  at  the  osteria. 

When  Cornelie  alighted,  she  at  once  saw  the 
prince. 

"  How  sweet  of  you  to  come  and  look  us  up  in 
our  eyrie !  "  he  cried,  in  rapture,  eagerly  pressing 
her  two  hands. 

He  led  her  through  the  station  to  his  little  basket- 
carriage,  with  two  little  horses  and  a  tiny  groom. 
A  porter  would  bring  her  luggage  to  the  castle. 

"  It's  delightful  of  you  to  come !  "  he  repeated. 
"  You  have  never  been  to  San  Stefano  before  ?  You 
know  the  cathedral  is  famous.  We  shall  go  right 
through  the  town:  the  road  to  the  castle  runs  be- 
hind it." 

He  was  smiling  with  pleasure.  He  started  the 
horses  with  a  click  of  his  tongue,  with  a  repeated 
shake  of  the  reins,  like  a  child.  They  flew  along 
the  road,  between  the  low,  sleepy  little  houses,  across 
the  square,  where  in  the  glowing  sunlight  the  glori- 
ous cathedral  rose,  Lombardo-Romanesque  in  style, 
begun  in  the  eleventh  and  added  to  in  every  succeed- 
ing century,  with  the  campanile  on  the  left  and  the 
battisterlo  on  the  right:  marvels  of  architecture  in 
red,  black  and  white  marble,  one  vast  sculpture  of 
angels,  saints  and  prophets  and  all  as  it  were  co- 
vered with  a  thick  dust  of  ages,  which  had  long  since 
tempered  the  colours  of  the  marble  to  rose,  grey 


THE  INEVITABLE  169 

and  yellow  and  which  hovered  between  the  groups 
as  the  one  and  only  thing  that  had  been  left  over 
of  all  those  centuries,  as  though  they  had  sunk  into 
dust  in  every  crevice. 

The  prince  drove  across  a  long  bridge,  whose 
arches  were  the  remains  of  an  ancient  aqueduct  and 
now  stood  in  the  river,  the  bed  of  which  was  quite 
dried  up,  with  children  playing  in  it.  Then  he  let 
the  little  horses  climb  at  a  foot's  pace.  The  road 
led  steeply,  winding,  barren  and  rocky,  up  to  the 
castle,  while  valleys  of  olives  sank  beneath  them, 
affording  an  ever  wider  view  over  the  ever  wider 
panorama  of  blue-white  mountains  and  opal  hori- 
zons gleaming  in  the  sun,  with  suddenly  a  glimpse 
of  the  lake,  the  oval  goblet,  now  sunk  deeper  and 
deeper,  as  in  a  fluted  brim  of  sun-scorched  hills,  its 
blue  growing  deeper  and  more  precipitous,  a  mystic 
blue  that  caught  all  the  blue  of  the  sky,  until  the 
air  shimmered  between  lake  and  sky  as  in  long 
spirals  of  light  that  whirled  before  the  eyes.  Until 
suddenly  there  drifted  an  intoxication  of  orange- 
blossom,  a  heavy,  sensual  breath  as  of  panting  love, 
as  though  thousands  of  mouths  were  exhaling  a  per- 
fumed breath  that  hung  stiflingly  in  the  windless  at- 
mosphere of  light,  between  the  lake  and  the  sky. 

The  prince,  happy  and  vivacious,  talked  a  great 
deal,  pointed  this  way  and  that  with  his  whip,  clicked 
at  the  horses,  asked  Cornelie  questions,  asked  if  she 
did  not  admire  the  landscape.  Slowly,  straining  the 
muscles  of  their  hind-legs,  the  horses  drew  the  car- 
riage up  the  ascent.  The  castle  lay  massive,  hud- 
dling close  to  the  ground.  The  lake  sank  lower  and 
lower.  The  horizons  became  wider,  like  a  world; 
a  fitful  breeze  blew  away  some  of  the  orange-blos- 
som breath.  The  road  became  broad,  easy  and 
level.  The  castle  lay  extended  like  a  fortress,  like 
a  town,  behind  its  pinnacled  walls,  with  gate  within 


170  THE  INEVITABLE 

gate.  They  drove  in,  across  a  courtyard,  under  an 
archway  into  a  second  courtyard,  under  a  second 
archway  with  a  third  courtyard.  And  Cornelie  re- 
ceived a  sensation  of  awe,  a  vision  of  pillars,  arches, 
statues,  arcades  and  fountains.  They  alighted. 

Urania  ran  out  to  meet  her,  embraced  her,  wel- 
comed her  affectionately  and  took  her  up  the  stairs 
and  through  the  passages  to  her  room.  The  wind- 
ows were  open;  she  looked  out  at  the  lake  and  the 
town  and  the  cathedral.  And  Urania  kissed  her 
again  and  made  her  sit  down.  And  Cornelie  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  Urania  had  grown  thin  and 
had  lost  her  former  brilliant  beauty  of  an  American 
girl,  with  the  unconscious  look  of  a  cocotte  in  her 
eyes,  her  smile  and  her  clothes.  She  was  changed. 
She  had  "  gone  off  "  a  little  and  was  no  longer  so 
pretty,  as  though  her  good  looks  had  been  a  short- 
lived pretence,  consisting  of  freshness  rather  than 
line.  But,  if  she  had  lost  her  bloom,  she  had  gained 
a  certain  distinction,  a  certain  style,  something  that 
surprised  Cornelie.  Her  gestures  were  quieter,  her 
voice  was  sdfter,  her  mouth  seemed  smaller  and 
was  not  always  splitting  open  to  display  her  white 
teeth;  her  dress  was  exceedingly  simple:  a  blue  skirt 
and  a  white  blouse.  Cornelie  found  it  difficult  to 
realize  that  the  young  Princess  di  Forte-Braccio, 
Duchess  di  San  Stefano,  was  Miss  Urania  Hope  of 
Chicago.  A  slight  melancholy  had  come  over  her, 
which  became  her,  even  though  she  was  less  pretty. 
And  Cornelie  reflected  that  she  must  have  some 
sorrow,  which  had  smoothed  her  angles,  but  that 
she  was  also  tactfully  accommodating  herself  to  her 
entirely  novel  environment.  She  asked  Urania  if 
she  was  happy.  Urania  said  yes,  with  her  sad 
smile,  which  was  so  new  and  so  surprising.  And 
she  told  her  story.  They  had  had  a  pleasant  win- 
ter at  Nice,  but  among  a  cosmopolitan  circle  of 


THE  INEVITABLE  171 

friends,  for,  though  her  new  relations  were  very 
kind,  they  were  exceedingly  condescending  and  Vir- 
gilio's  friends,  especially  the  ladies,  kept  her  at 
arm's  length  in  an  almost  insolent  fashion.  Already 
during  the  honeymoon  she  had  perceived  that  the 
aristocracy  were  prepared  to  tolerate  her,  but  that 
they  could  never  forget  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  Hope  the  Chicago  stockinet-manufacturer.  She 
had  seen  that  she  was  not  the  only  one  who,  though 
she  was  now  a  princess  and  duchess,  was  accepted 
on  sufferance  and  only  for  her  millions:  there  were 
others  like  herself.  She  had  formed  no  friendships. 
People  came  to  her  parties  and  dances :  they  were 
frere  et  compagnon  and  hand  and  glove  with  Gilio; 
the  women  called  him  by  his  Christian  name,  laughed 
and  flirted  with  him  and  seemed  quite  to  approve 
of  him  for  marrying  a  few  millions.  To  Urania 
they  were  just  barely  civil,  especially  the  women: 
the  men  were  not  so  difficult.  But  the  whole  thing 
saddened  her,  especially  with  all  these  women  of  the 
higher  nobility  —  bearers  of  the  most  famous  names 
in  Italy  —  who  treated  her  with  condescension  and 
always  managed  to  exclude  her  from  every  inti- 
macy, from  all  private  gatherings,  from  all  coopera- 
tion in  the  matter  of  parties  or  charities.  When 
everything  had  been  discussed,  then  they  asked  the 
Princess  di  Forte-Braccio  to  take  part  and  offered 
her  the  place  to  which  she  was  entitled  and  even  did 
so  with  scrupulous  punctiliousness.  They  manifestly 
treated  her  as  a  princess  and  an  equal  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  of  the  public.  But  in  their  own  set  she 
remained  Urania  Hope.  And  the  few  other,  mid- 
dle-<:lass  millionaire  elements  of  course  ran  after 
her,  but  she  kept  these  at  a  distance;  and  Gilio  ap- 
proved. And  what  had  Gilio  said  when  she  once 
complained  of  her  grievance  to  him?  That  she,  by 
displaying  tactfulness,  would  certainly  conquer  her 


172  THE  INEVITABLE 

position,  but  with  great  patience  and  after  many, 
many  years.  She  was  now  crying,  with  her  head  on 
Cornelie's  shoulder:  oh,  she  reflected,  she  would 
never  conquer  them,  those  haughty  women !  What 
after  all  was  she,  a  Hope,  compared  with  all  those 
celebrated  families,  which  together  made  up  the  an- 
cient glory  of  Italy  and  which,  like  the  Massimos, 
traced  back  their  descent  to  the  Romans  of  old? 

Was  Gilio  kind?  Yes,  but  from  the  beginning  he 
had  treated  her  as  "  his  wife."  All  his  pleasantness, 
all  his  cheerfulness  was  kept  for  others :  he  never 
talked  to  her  much.  And  the  young  princess  wept: 
she  felt  lonely,  she  sometimes  longed  for  America. 
She  had  now  invited  her  brother  to  stay  with  her, 
a  nice  boy  of  seventeen,  who  had  come  over  for  her 
wedding  and  travelled  about  Europe  a  little  before 
returning  to  his  farm  in  the  Far  West.  He  was  her 
darling,  he  consoled  her;  but  he  would  be  gone  in  a 
few  weeks.  And  then  what  would  she  have  left? 
Oh,  how  glad  she  was  that  Cornelie  had  come !  And 
how  well  she  was  looking,  prettier  than  she  had  ever 
seen  her  look!  Van  der  Staal  had  accepted:  he 
would  be  here  in  a  week.  She  asked,  in  a  whisper, 
were  they  not  going  to  get  married?  Cornelie  an- 
swered positively  no;  she  was  not  marrying,  she 
would  never  marry  again.  And,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  candour,  unable  to  conceal  things  from  Urania, 
she  told  her  that  she  was  no  longer  living  in  the  Via 
dei  Serpenti,  that  she  was  living  in  Duco's  studio. 
Urania  was  startled  by  this  breach  of  every  con- 
vention; but  she  regarded  her  friend  as  a  woman 
who  could  do  things  which  another  could  not.  So 
it  was  only  their  happiness  and  friendship,  she  whis- 
pered, as  though  frightened,  and  without  the  sanc- 
tion of  society?  Urania  remembered  Cornelie's 
imprecations  agair.st  marriage  and,  formerly,  against 
the  prince.  But  she  did  like  Gilio  a  little  now,  didn't 


THE  INEVITABLE  173 

she?  Oh,  she,  Urania,  would  not  be  jealous  again! 
She  thought  it  delightful  that  Cornelie  had  come; 
and  Gilio,  who  was  bored,  had  also  looked  forward 
so  to  her  arrival.  Oh,  no,  Urania  was  no  longer 
jealous ! 

And,  with  her  head  on  Cornelie's  shoulder  and 
her  eyes  still  full  of  tears,  she  seemed  merely  to  ask 
for  a  little  friendship,  a  little  affection,  a  few  kind 
words  and  caresses,  this  wealthy  American  child  who 
now  bore  the  title  of  an  ancient  Italian  house.  And 
Cornelie  felt  for  her  because  she  was  suffering,  be- 
cause she  was  no  longer  a  small  insignificant  person, 
whose  line  of  life  happened  to  cross  her  own.  She 
took  her  in  her  arms,  comforted  her,  the  weeping 
little  princess,  as  with  a  new  friendship ;  she  accepted 
her  in  her  life  as  a  friend,  no  longer  as  a  small  in- 
significant person.  And,  when  Urania,  staring  wide- 
eyed,  remembered  Cornelie's  warning,  Cornelie 
treated  that  warning  lightly  and  said  that  Urania 
ought  to  show  more  courage.  Tact,  she  possessed, 
innate  tact.  But  she  must  be  courageous  and  face 
life  as  it  came.  .  .  . 

They  stood  up  and,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms, 
looked  out  of  the  open  window.  The  bells  of  the 
cathedral  were  pealing  through  the  air;  the  cathe- 
dral rose  in  noble  pride  from  out  of  a  very  low 
huddle  of  roofs,  a  gigantic  cathedral  for  so  small 
a  town,  an  immense  symbol  of  ecclesiastical  do- 
minion over  the  roof-tops  of  the  little  town  kneeling 
in  reverence.  And  the  awe  which  had  filled  Cornelie 
in  the  courtyard,  among  the  arcades,  statues  and 
fountains,  inspired  her  anew,  because  glory  and 
grandeur,  dying  but  not  dead,  mouldering  but  not 
spent,  seemed  to  loom  dimly  from  the  mystic  blue 
of  the  lake,  from  the  age-old  architecture  of  the  ca- 
thedral, up  the  orange-clad  hills  to  the  castle,  where 
at  an  open  window  stood  a  young  foreign  woman, 


174  THE  INEVITABLE 

discouraged,  although  that  phantom  of  glory  and 

frandeur  needed  her  millions  in  order  to  endure 
or  a  few  more  generations.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  beautiful  and  stately,  all  this  past,"  thought 
Cornelie.  "  It  is  great.  But  still  it  is  no  longer  any- 
thing. It  is  a  phantom.  For  it  is  gone,  it  is  all 
gone,  it  is  but  a  memory  of  proud  and  arrogant 
nobles,  of  narrow  souls  that  do  not  look  towards  the 
future." 

And  the  future,  with  a  confusion  of  social  pro- 
blems, with  the  waving  of  new  banners  and  stream- 
ers, now  whirled  before  her  in  the  long  spirals  of 
light,  which,  like  blue  notes  of  interrogation,  shim- 
mered before  her  eyes,  between  the  lake  and  the 
sky. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Cornelia  had  changed  her  dress  and  now  left  her 
room.  She  went  down  the  corridor  and  saw  no- 
body. She  did  not  know  the  way,  but  walked  on. 
Suddenly  a  wide  staircase  fell  away  before  her,  be- 
tween two  rows  of  gigantic  marble  candelabra;  and 
Cornelie  came  to  an  atrio  which  opened  over  the 
lake.  The  walls,  with  frescoes  by  Mantegna,  re- 
presenting feats  of  bygone  San  Stefanos,  supported 
a  cupola  which,  painted  with  sky  and  clouds,  ap- 
peared as  though  it  were  open  to  the  outer  air  and 
which  was  surrounded  by  groups  of  cupids  and 
nymphs  looking  down  from  a  balustrade. 

She  stepped  outside  and  saw  Gilio.  He  was  sit- 
ting on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  gazing  at  the  lake.  He  came  up  to 
her: 

"  I  was  almost  sure  that  you  would  come  this 
way,"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  tired?  May  I  show 
you  round?  Have  you  seen  our  Mantegnas?  They 
have  suffered  badly.  They  were  restored  at  the 
beginning  of  the  century.1  They  look  rather  di- 
lapidated, don't  they?  Do  you  see  that  little 
mythological  scene  up  there,  by  Giulio  Romano? 
Come  here,  through  this  door.  But  it's  locked. 
Wait.  .  .  ." 

He  called  out  an  order  to  some  one  below.     Pre- 
sently an  old  serving-man  arrived  with  a  heavy  bunch 
of  keys,  which  he  handed  to  the  prince. 
'  You  can  go,  Egisto.     I  know  the  keys." 

The  man  went  away.  The  prince  opened  a  heavy 
bronze  door.  He  showed  her  the  bas-reliefs : 

1The  nineteenth  century. 

175 


176  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  Giovanni  da  Bologna,"  he  said. 

They  went  on,  through  a  room  hung  with  tapes- 
tries; the  prince  pointed  to  a  ceiling  by  Ghirlandajo: 
the  apotheosis  of  the  only  pope  of  the  house  of  San 
Stefano.  Next  through  a  hall  of  mirrors,  painted 
by  Mario  de'  Flori.  The  dusty,  musty  smell  of  an 
ill-kept  museum,  with  its  atmosphere  of  neglect  and 
indifference,  stifled  the  breath;  the  white-silk  window- 
curtains  were  yellow  with  age,  soiled  by  flies;  the  red 
curtains  of  Venetian  damask  hung  in  moth-eaten 
rags  and  tatters;  the  painted  mirrors  were  dull  and 
tarnished;  the  arms  of  the  Venetian  glass  chandel- 
iers were  broken.  Pushed  aside  anyhow,  like  so 
much  rubbish  in  a  lumber-room,  stood  the  most  pre- 
cious cabinets,  inlaid  with  bronze,  mother-of-pearl 
and  ebony  panels,  and  mosaic  tables  of  lapis-lazuli, 
malachite  and  green,  yellow,  black  and  pink  marble. 
In  the  tapestries  —  Saul  and  David,  Esther,  Holo- 
fernes,  Salome  —  the  vitality  of  the  figures  had 
evaporated,  as  though  they  were  suffocated  under 
the  grey  coat  of  dust  that  lay  thick  upon  their  worn 
textures  and  neutralized  every  colour. 

In  the  immense  halls,  half-dark  in  their  curtained 
dusk,  a  sort  of  sorrow  lingered,  like  a  melancholy 
of  hopeless,  conquered  exasperation,  a  slow  decline 
of  greatness  and  magnificence;  between  the  master- 
pieces of  the  most  famous  painters  mournful  empty 
spaces  yawned,  the  witnesses  of  pinching  penury, 
spaces  once  occupied  by  pictures  that  had  once  and 
even  lately  been  sold  for  fortunes.  Cornelie  re- 
membered something  about  a  law-suit  some  years 
ago,  an  attempt  to  send  some  Raphaels  across  the 
frontier,  in  defiance  of  the  law,  and  to  sell  them  in 
Berlin.  .  .  .  And  Gilio  led  her  hurriedly  through 
the  spectral  halls,  gay  as  a  boy,  light-hearted  as  a 
child,  glad  to  have  his  diversion,  mentioning  with- 
out affection  or  interest  names  which  he  had  heard 


THE  INEVITABLE  177 

in  his  childhood,  but  making  mistakes  and  correct- 
ing himself  and  at  last  confessing  that  he  had  for- 
gotten : 

"  And  here  is  the  camera  degli  sposi.  .  .  ." 

He  fumbled  at  the  bunch  of  keys,  read  the  brass 
labels  till  he  found  the  right  one  and  opened  the 
door,  which  grated  on  its  hinges;  and  they  went  in. 

And  suddenly  there  was  something  like  an  intense 
and  exquisite  stateliness  of  intimacy:  a  huge  bed- 
room, all  gold,  with  the  dim  gold  of  tenderly  faded 
golden  tissues.  On  the  walls  were  gold-coloured 
tapestries:  Venus  rising  from  the  gilt  foam  of  a 
golden  ocean,  Venus  and  Mars,  Venus  and  Cupid, 
Venus  and  Adonis.  The  pale-pink  nudity  of  these 
mythological  beings  stood  forth  very  faintly  against 
the  sheer  gold  of  sky  and  atmosphere,  in  golden 
woodlands,  amid  golden  flowers,  with  golden  cupids 
and  swans  and  doves  and  wild  boars;  golden  pea- 
cocks drank  from  golden  fountains ;  water  and  clouds 
were  of  elemental  gold;  and  all  this  had  tenderly 
faded  into  a  languorous  sunset  of  expiring  radiance. 
The  state  bed  was  gold,  under  a  canopy  of  gold 
brocade,  on  which  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  fa- 
mily were  embroidered  in  heavy  relief;  the  bedspread 
was  gold;  but  all  this  gold  was  lifeless,  had  lapsed 
into  the  melancholy  of  all  but  grey  lustre:  it  was 
effaced,  erased,  obliterated,  as  though  the  dusty 
ages  had  cast  a  shadow  over  it,  had  woven  a  web 
across  it. 

"  How  beautiful!  "  said  Cornelie. 

"  Our  famous  bridal  chamber,"  said  the  prince, 
laughing.  "  It  was  a  strange  idea  of  those  old 
people,  to  spend  the  first  night  in  such  a  peculiar 
apartment.  When  they  married,  in  our  family,  they 
slept  here  on  the  bridal  night.  It  was  a  sort  of  su- 
perstition. The  young  wife  remained  faithful  only 
provided  it  was  here  that  she  spent  the  first  night 


178  THE  INEVITABLE 

/ 

with  her  husband.  Poor  Urania!  We  did  not 
sleep  here,  signora  mia,  among  all  these  indecent 
goddesses  of  love.  We  no  longer  respect  the  fa- 
mily tradition.  Urania  is  therefore  doomed  by  fate 
to  be  unfaithful  to  me.  Unless  I  take  that  doom 
on  my  own  shoulders.  .  .  ." 

"  I  suppose  the  fidelity  of  the  husbands  is  not 
mentioned  in  this  family  tradition?  " 

"  No,  we  attached  very  little  importance  to  that 
.  .  .  nor  do  we  nowadays.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  glorious,"  Cornelie  repeated,  locking  around 
her.  "  Duco  will  think  it  perfectly  glorious.  Oh, 
prince,  I  never  saw  such  a  room!  Look  at  Venus 
over  there,  with  the  wounded  Adonis,  his  head  in 
her  lap,  the  nymphs  lamenting!  It  is  a  fairy-tale." 
'  There's  too  much  gold  for  my  taste." 

"  It  may  have  been  so  before,  too  much  gold  .  .  ." 

"  Masses  of  gold  denoted  wealth  and  abundant 
love.  The  wealth  is  gone  .  .  ." 

"  But  the  gold  is  softened  now,  so  beautifully 
toned  down  .  .  ." 

'  The  abundant  love  has  remained :  the  San  Ste- 
fanos  have  always  loved  much." 

He  went  on  jesting,  called  attention  to  the  wan- 
tonness of  the  design  and  risked  an  allusion. 

She  pretended  not  to  hear.  She  looked  at  the 
tapestries.  In  the  intervals  between  the  panels 
golden  peacocks  drank  from  golden  fountains  and 
cupids  played  with  doves. 

"  I  am  so  fond  of  you !  "  he  whispered  in  her  ear, 
putting  his  arm  round  her  waist.  "  Angel !  An- 
gel!" 

She  pushed  him  away: 

"Prince  .   .  ." 

"CallmeGilio!"  . 

"  Why  can't  we  be  just  good  friends?" 


THE  INEVITABLE  179 

"  Because  I  want  something  more  than  friend- 
ship." 

She  now  released  herself  entirely : 

"  And  I  don't!  "  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  Do  you  only  love  one  then?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  not  possible." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because,  if  so,  you  would  marry  him.  If  you 
loved  nobody  but  Van  der  Staal,  you  would  marry 
him." 

"  I  am  opposed  to  marriage." 

"  Nonsense !  You're  not  marrying  him,  so  that 
you  may  be  free.  And,  if  you  want  to  be  free,  I 
also  am  entitled  to  ask  for  my  moment  of  love." 

She  gave  him  a  strange  look.     He  felt  her  scorn. 
'  You  .  .  .  you  don't  understand  me  at  all,"  she 
said,  slowly  and  compassionately. 
'  You  understand  me." 

"  Oh,  yes !     You  are  so  very  simple !  " 

"Why  won't  you?" 

"  Because  I  won't." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  haven't  that  feeling  for  you." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  insisted;  and  his  hands  clenched 
as  he  spoke. 

"Why  not?"  she  repeated.  "Because  I  think 
you  a  cheerful  and  pleasant  companion  with  whom 
to  take  things  lightly,  but  in  other  respects  your 
temperament  is  not  in  tune  with  mine." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  temperament?  " 

"  I  can  see  you." 

"  You  are  not  a  doctor." 

"  No,  but  I  am  a  woman." 

"  And  I  a  man." 

"  But  not  for  me." 


1 8o  THE  INEVITABLE 

Furiously,  with  a  curse,  he  caught  her  in  his  qui- 
vering arms.  Before  she  could  prevent  him,  he  had 
kissed  her  fiercely.  She  struggled  out  of  his  grasp 
and  slapped  his  face.  He  gave  another  curse  and 
flung  out  his  arms  to  seize  her  again,  but  she  drew 
herself  up : 

"  Prince  1"  she  cried,  screaming  with  laughter. 
"  You  surely  don't  think  that  you  can  compel  me?  " 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

She  gave  a  disdainful  laugh : 

"  You  can  not,"  she  said,  aloud.  "  For  I  refuse 
and  I  will  not  be  compelled." 

He  saw  red,  he  was  furious.  He  had  never  be- 
fore been  defied  and  thwarted ;  lie  had  always  con- 
quered. 

She  saw  him  rushing  at  her,  but  she  quietly  flung 
back  the  door  of  the  room. 

The  long  galleries  and  apartments  stretched  out 
before  them,  as  though  endlessly.  There  was  some- 
thing in  that  vista  of  ancestral  spaciousness  that  re- 
strained him.  He  was  an  impetuous  rather  than  a 
deliberate  ravisher.  She  walked  on  very  slowly, 
looking  attentively  to  right  and  left. 

He  came  up  with  her: 

"  You  struck  me !  "  he  panted,  furiously.  "  I'll 
never  forgive  it,  never!  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  her  sweet- 
ened voice  and  smile.  "  I  had  to  defend  myself, 
you  know." 

"Why?" 

"  Prince,"  she  said,  persuasively,  "  why  all  this 
anger  and  passion  and  exasperation?  You  can  be 
so  nice;  when  I  saw  you  last  in  Rome  you  were  so 
charming.  We  were  always  such  good  friends.  I 
enjoyed  your  conversation  and  your  wit  and  your 
good-nature.  Now  it's  all  spoilt." 


THE  INEVITABLE  181 

"  No,"  he  entreated. 

"  Yes,  it  is.  You  won't  understand  me.  Your 
temperament  is  not  in  harmony  with  mine.  Don't 
you  understand?  You  force  me  to  speak,  coarsely, 
because  you  are  coarse  yourself." 

"I?" 

"  Yes.  You  don't  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my 
independence." 

"No,  I  don't!" 

"  Is  that  courteous,  towards  a  woman?  " 

"  I  am  courteous  only  up  to  a  certain  point." 

"  We  have  left  that  point  behind.  So  be  court- 
eous again  as  before." 

"  You  are  playing  with  me.  I  shall  never  forget 
it;  I  will  be  revenged." 

"  So  it's  a  struggle  for  life  and  death?  " 

"  No,  a  struggle  for  victory,  for  me." 

They  had  reached  the  atrio: 

"  Thanks  for  showing  me  round,"  she  said,  a 
little  mockingly.  "  The  camera  degli  sposi,  above 
all,  was  splendid.  Don't  let  us  be  angry  any  more." 

And  she  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  struck  me  here,  in  the  face. 
My  cheek  is  still  burning.  I  won't  accept  your 
hand." 

"Poor  cheek!"  she  said,  teasingly.  "Poor 
prince !  Did  I  hit  hard?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  can  I  extinguish  that  burning?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  still  breathing  hard,  and  flushed, 
with  glittering  carbuncle  eyes: 

"  You're  a  bigger  coquette  than  any  Italian 
woman." 

She  laughed: 

"  With  a  kiss  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Demon!  "  he  muttered,  between  his  teeth. 


1 82  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  With  a  kiss?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  There,  in  our  camera  degli 
sposi" 

"  No,  here." 

"  Demon !  "  he  muttered,  still  more  softly. 

She  kissed  him  quickly.  Then  she  gave  him  her 
hand  : 

"  And  now  that's  over.     The  incident  is  closed." 

"Angel!     She-devil!  "  he  hissed  after  her. 

She  looked  over  the  balustrade  at  the  lake.  Eve- 
ning had  fallen  and  the  lake  lay  shimmering  in  mist. 
She  regarded  him  as  a  young  boy,  who  sometimes 
amused  her  and  had  now  been  naughty.  She  was 
no  longer  thinking  of  him;  she  was  thinking  of 
Duco: 

"  How  lovely  he  will  think  it  here !  "  she  thought. 
"  Oh,  how  I  long  for  him!  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  women's  skirts  behind  her. 
It  was  Urania  and  the  Marchesa  Belloni. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

Urania  asked  Cornelie  to  come  in,  because  it  was 
not  healthy  out  of  doors  now,  at  sunset,  with  the 
misty  exhalations  from  the  lake.  The  marchesa 
bowed  coldly  and  stiffly,  pinched  her  eyes  together 
and  pretended  not  to  remember  Cornelie  very  well. 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  said  Cornelie,  smiling 
acidly.  '  You  see  different  boarders  at  your  pen- 
sion every  day  and  I  stayed  for  a  much  shorter  time 
than  you  reckoned  on.  I  hope  that  you  soon  dis- 
posed of  my  rooms  again,  marchesa,  and  that  you 
suffered  no  loss  through  my  departure?  " 

The  Marchesa  Belloni  looked  at  her  in  mute 
amazement.  She  was  here,  at  San  Stefano,  in  her 
element  as  a  marchioness;  she,  the  sister-in-law  of 
the  old  prince,  never  spoke  here  of  her  foreigners' 
boarding-house;  she  never  met  her  Roman  guests 
here:  they  sometimes  visited  the  castle,  but  only  at 
fixed  hours,  whereas  she  spent  the  weeks  of  her 
summer  villeggiatura  here.  And  here  she  laid  aside 
her  plausible  manner  of  singing  the  praises  of  a 
chilly  room,  her  commercial  habit  of  asking  the 
most  that  she  dared.  She  here  carried  her  curled, 
leonine  head  with  a  lofty  dignity;  and,  though  she 
still  wore  her  crystal  brilliants  in  her  ears,  she  also 
wore  a  brand-new  spencer  around  her  ample  bosom. 
She  could  not  help  it,  that  she,  a  countess  by  birth, 
she,  the  Marchesa  Belloni  —  the  late  marquis  was 
a  brother  of  the  defunct  princess  —  possessed  no 
personal  distinction,  despite  all  her  quarterings;  but 
she  felt  herself  to  be,  as  indeed  she  was,  an  aristo- 
crat. The  friends,  the  monsignori  whom  she  did 

183 


1 84  THE  INEVITABLE 

sometimes  meet  at  San  Stefano,  promoted  the  Pen- 
sion Belloni  in  their  conversation  and  called  it  the 
Palazzo  Belloni. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  at  last,  very  coolly,  blinking 
her  eyes  with  an  aristocratic  air,  "  I  remember  you 
now  .  .  .  although  I've  forgotten  your  name.  A 
friend  of  the  Princess  Urania,  I  believe?  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  again,  very  glad.  .  .  .  And  what  do 
you  think  of  your  friend's  marriage?"  she  asked, 
as  she  went  up  the  stairs  beside  Cornelie,  between 
Mino  da  Fiesole's  marble  candelabra. 

Gilio,  still  angry  and  flushed  and  not  at  all  calmed 
by  the  kiss,  had  moved  away.  Urania  had  run  on 
ahead.  The  marchesa  knew  of  Cornelie's  original 
opposition,  of  her  former  advice  to  Urania;  and 
she  was  certain  that  Cornelie  had  acted  in  this  way 
because  she  herself  had  had  views  on  Gilio.  There 
was  a  note  of  triumphant  irony  in  her  question. 

"  I  think  it  was  made  in  Heaven,"  Cornelie  re- 
plied, in  a  bantering  tone.  "  I  believe  there  is  a 
blessing  on  their  marriage." 

"  The  blessing  of  his  holiness,"  said  the  mar- 
chesa, naively,  not  understanding. 

"  Of  course :  the  blessing  of  his  holiness  .  .  . 
and  of  Heaven." 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  religious?  " 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  their  marriage,  I 
become  very  religious.  What  peace  for  the  Princess 
Urania's  soul  when  she  became  a  Catholic!  What 
happiness  in  life,  to  marry  il  caro  Gilio!  There  is 
still  peace  and  happiness  left  in  life." 

The  marchesa  had  a  vague  suspicion  that  she  was 
mocking  and  thought  her  a  dangerous  woman. 

"  And  you,  has  our  religion  no  charm  for  you?  " 

"  A  great  deal!  I  have  a  great  feeling  for  beau- 
tiful churches  and  pictures.  But  that  is  an  artistic 
conception.  You  will  not  understand  it  perhaps, 


THE  INEVITABLE  185 

for  I  don't  think  you  are  artistic,  marchesa?  And 
marriage  also  has  charms  for  me,  a  marriage  like 
Urania's.  Couldn't  you  help  me  too  some  time, 
marchesa?  Then  I  will  spend  a  whole  winter  in 
your  pension  and  —  who  knows?  —  perhaps  I  too 
shall  become  a  Catholic.  You  might  give  Rudyard 
another  chance,  with  me;  and,  if  that  didn't  suc- 
ceed, the  two  monsignori.  Then  I  should  certainly 
become  converted.  .  .  .  And  it  would  of  course 
be  lucrative." 

The  marchesa  looked  at  her  haughtily,  white  with 
rage: 

"  Lucrative?  .   .   ." 

"  If  you  get  me  an  Italian  title,  but  accompanied 
by  money,  of  course  it  would  be  lucrative." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

'  Well,  ask  the  old  prince,  marchesa,  or  the  two 
monsignori." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?  What  are  you 
thinking  of?  " 

"I?  Nothing!"  Cornelie  answered,  coolly. 
"  But  I  have  second  sight.  I  sometimes  suddenly 
see  a  thing.  So  keep  on  friendly  terms  with  me  and 
don't  pretend  again  to  forget  an  old  boarder.  .  .  . 
Is  this  the  Princess  Urania's  room?  You  go  in  first, 
marchesa ;  after  you.  .  .  ." 

The  marchesa  entered  all  aquiver:  she  had 
thoughts  of  witchcraft.  How  did  that  woman  know 
anything  of  her  transactions  with  the  old  prince  and 
the  monsignori?  How  did  she  come  to  suspect  that 
Urania's  marriage  and  her  conversion  had  enriched 
the  marchesa  to  the  tune  of  a  few  ten  thousand 
lire? 

She  had  not  only  had  a  lesson:  she  was  shudder- 
ing, she  was  frightened.  Was  that  woman  a  witch? 
Wag  she  the  devil?  Had  she  the  mal'occhio?  And 
the  marchesa  made  the  sign  of  the  jettatura  with 


1 86  THE  INEVITABLE 

her  little  finger  and  fore-finger  in  the  folds  of  her 
dress  and  muttered: 

"  Vade  retro,  Satanas.  .  .   ." 

In  her  own  drawing-room,  Urania  poured  out  tea. 
The  three  pointed  windows  of  the  room  overlooked 
the  town  and  the  ancient  cathedral,  which  in  the 
orange  reflection  of  the  last  gleams  of  sunset  shot 
up  for  yet  a  moment  out  of  its  grey  dust  of  ages  with 
the  dim  huddle  of  its  saints,  prophets  and  angels. 
The  room,  hung  with  handsome  tapestries  —  an 
allegory  of  Abundance:  nymphs  outpouring  the  con- 
tents of  their  cornucopias  —  was  half  old,  half  mod- 
ern, not  always  perfect  in  taste  or  pure  in  tone,  with 
here  and  there  a  few  hideously  commonplace  modern 
ornaments,  here  and  there  some  modern  comfort 
that  clashed  with  the  rest,  but  still  cosy,  inhabited 
and  Urania's  home.  A  young  man  rose  from  a 
chair  and  Urania  introduced  him  to  Cornelie  as  her 
brother.  Young  Hope  was  a  strongly-built,  fresh- 
looking  boy  of  eighteen ;  he  was  still  in  his  bicycling- 
suit:  it  didn't  matter,  said  his  sister,  just  to  drink  a 
cup  of  tea.  Laughing,  she  stroked  his  close-clipped 
round  head  and,  with  the  ladies'  permission,  gave 
him  his  tea  first:  then  he  would  go  and  change.  He 
looked  so  strange,  so  new  and  so  healthy  as  he  sat 
there  with  his  fresh,  pink  complexion,  his  broad 
chest,  his  strong  hands  and  muscular  calves,  with  the 
youthfulness  of  a  young  Yankee  farmer  who,  not- 
withstanding the  millions  of  •"  old  man  Hope," 
worked  on  his  farm,  way  out  in  the  Far  West,  to 
make  his  own  fortune;  he  looked  so  strange  in  this 
ancient  San  Stefano,  within  view  of  that  severely 
symbolical  cathedral,  against  this  background  of  old 
tapestries.  And  suddenly  Cornelie  was  impressed 
still  more  strangely  by  the  new  young  princess.  Her 
name  —  her  American  name  of  Urania  —  had  a 
first-rate  sound:  "the  Princess  Urania"  sounded 


THE  INEVITABLE  187 

unexpectedly  well.  But  the  little  young  wife,  a  trifle 
pale,  a  trifle  sad,  with  her  clipping  American  accent, 
suddenly  struck  Cornelie  as  somewhat  out  of  place 
amid  the  faded  glories  of  San  Stefano.  Cornelie 
was  continually  forgetting  that  Urania  was  Princess 
di  Forte-Braccio :  she  always  thought  of  her  as  Miss 
Hope.  And  yet  Urania  possessed  great  tact,  great 
ease  of  manner,  a  great  power  of  assimilation. 
Gilio  had  entered ;  and  the  few  words  which  she  ad- 
dressed to  her  husband  were,  quite  naturally,  almost 
dignified  .  .  .  and  yet  carried,  to  Cornelie's  ears, 
a  sound  of  resigned  disillusionment  which  made  her 
pity  Urania.  She  had  from  the  beginning  felt  a 
vague  liking  for  Urania ;  now  she  felt  a  fonder  affec- 
tion. She  was  sorry  for  this  child,  the  Princess 
Urania.  Gilio  behaved  to  her  with  careless  cool- 
ness, the  marchesa  with  patronizing  condescension. 
And  then  there  was  that  awful  loneliness  around  her, 
of  all  that  ruined  magnificence.  She  stroked  her 
young  brother's  head.  She  spoilt  him,  she  asked 
him  if  his  tea  was  all  right  and  stuffed  him  with  sand- 
wiches, because  he  was  hungry  after  his  bicycle-ride. 
She  had  him  with  her  now  as  a  reminder  of  home, 
a  reminder  of  Chicago;  she  almost  clung  to  him. 
But  for  the  rest  she  was  surrounded  by  the  depress- 
ing gloom  of  the  immense  castle,  the  neglected  glory 
of  its  ancient  stateliness,  the  conceit  of  that  aristo- 
cratic pride,  which  could  do  without  her  but  not  with- 
out her  millions.  And  for  Cornelie  she  had  lost 
all  her  absurdity  as  an  American  parvenue  and,  on 
the  contrary,  had  acquired  an  air  of  tragedy,  as  of 
a  young  sacrificial  victim.  How  alien  they  were  as 
they  sat  there,  the  young  princess  and  her  brother, 
with  his  muscular  calves ! 

Urania  displayed  her  portfolio  of  drawings  and 
designs:  the  ideas  of  a  young  Roman  architect  for 
restoring  the  castle.  And  she  became  excited,  with 


1 88  THE  INEVITABLE 

a  flush  in  her  cheeks,  when  Cornelie  asked  her  if  so 
much  restoration  would  really  be  beautiful.  Urania 
defended  her  architect.  Gilio  smoked  cigarettes 
with  an  air  of  indifference;  he  was  in  a  bad  temper. 
The  marchesa  sat  like  an  idol,  with  her  leonine  head 
and  the  crystals  sparkling  in  her  ears.  She  was 
afraid  of  Cornelie  and  promised  herself  to  be  on 
her  guard.  A  major-domo  came  and  announced 
to  the  princess  that  dinner  was  served.  And  Cor- 
nelie recognized  old  Giuseppe  from  the  Pension  Bel- 
loni,  the  old  archducal  major-domo,  who  had  once 
dropped  a  spoon,  according  to  Rudyard's  story. 
She  looked  at  Urania  with  a  laugh  and  Urania 
blushed : 

u  Poor  man!  "  she  said,  when  Giuseppe  was  gone. 
"  Yes,  I  took  him  over  from  my  aunt.  He  was  so 
hard-worked  at  the  Palazzo  Belloni !  Here  he  has 
very  little  to  do  and  he  has  a  young  butler  under 
him.  The  number  of  servants  had  to  be  increased 
in  any  case.  He  is  enjoying  a  pleasant  old  age 
here,  poor  dear  old  Giuseppe.  .  .  .  There,  Bob, 
now  you  haven't  dressed!  " 

"  She's  a  dear  child,"  thought  Cornelie,  while 
they  all  rose  and  Urania  gently  reproached  her 
brother,  as  she  would  a  spoiled  boy,  for  coming 
down  to  dinner  in  his  knickerbockers. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

They  were  in  the  great  sombre  dining-room,  with 
the  almost  black  tapestries,  with  the  almost  black 
panels  of  the  ceiling,  with  the  almost  black  oak 
carvings,  with  the  black,  monumental  chimney-piece 
and,  above  it,  the  arms  of  the  family  in  black  mar- 
ble. The  light  of  two  tall  silver  candle-sticks  on 
the  table  merely  cast  a  gleam  over  the  damask  and 
crystal,  but  left  the  remainder  of  the  too  large 
room  in  a  gloomy  obscurity  of  shadow,  piled  in  the 
corners  into  masses  of  densest  shadow,  with  a  fainter 
shadow  descending  from  the  ceiling  like  a  haze  of 
dark  velvet  that  floated  in  atoms  above  the  candle- 
light. The  ancestral  antiquity  of  San  Stefano  ho- 
vered above  them  in  this  room  like  a  palpable  sense 
of  awe,  blended  with  a  melancholy  of  black  silence 
and  black  pride.  Here  their  words  sounded  muf- 
fled. This  still  remained  as  it  always  had  been,  re- 
taining as  it  were  the  sacrosanctity  of  their  aristo- 
cratic traditions,  in  which  Urania  would  never  dare 
to  alter  anything,  even  as  she  hardly  ventured  to 
open  her  mouth  to  speak  or  eat.  They  waited  for 
a  moment.  Then  a  double  door  was  opened.  And 
there  entered  like  a  spectral  shade  an  old,  grey  man, 
with  his  arm  in  the  arm  of  the  priest  walking  beside 
him.  Old  Prince  Ercole  approached  with  very  slow 
and  stately  steps,  while  the  chaplain  regulated  his 
pace  by  that  stately  slowness.  He  wore  a  long 
black  coat  of  an  old-fashioned,  roomy  cut,  which 
hung  about  him  in  folds,  something  like  a  cassock, 
and  on  his  silvery  grey  hair,  which  waved  over  his 

189 


190  THE  INEVITABLE 

neck,  a  black-velvet  skull-cap.  And  the  others  ap- 
proached him  with  the  greatest  respect:  first  the 
marchesa ;  then  Urania,  whom  he  kissed  on  the  fore- 
head, very  slowly,  as  though  he  were  consecrating 
her;  then  Gilio,  who  submissively  kissed  his  father's 
hand.  The  old  man  nodded  to  young  Hope,  who 
bowed,  and  glanced  towards  Cornelie.  Urania  pre- 
sented her.  And  the  prince  said  a  few  amiable 
words  to  her,  as  though  he  were  granting  an  audi- 
ence, and  asked  her  if  she  liked  Italy.  When  Cor- 
nelie had  replied,  Prince  Ercole  sat  down  and 
handed  his  skull-cap  to  Giuseppe,  who  took  it  with 
a  deep  bow.  Then  they  all  sat  down:  the  marchesa 
and  the  chaplain  opposite  Prince  Ercole,  who  sat 
between  Cornelie  and  Urania;  Gilio  next  to  Cornelie; 
Bob  Hope  next  to  his  sister: 

"  My  legs  don't  show,"  he  whispered. 

"Ssh!"  said  Urania. 

Giuseppe,  revivified  in  his  former  dignity,  stand- 
ing at  a  sideboard,  solemnly  filled  the  plates  with 
soup.  He  was  back  in  his  element ;  he  was  obviously 
grateful  to  Urania;  he  wore  a  distinguished  air,  as 
of  one  whose  mind  is  at  peace,  and  looked  like  an 
elderly  diplomatist  in  his  dress-coat.  He  amused 
Cornelie,  who  thought  of  Belloni's,  where  he  used 
to  become  impatient  when  the  visitors  were  late  at 
meals  and  to  rail  at  the  young  greenhorns  of  waiters 
whom  the  marchesa  engaged  for  economy's  sake. 
When  the  two  footmen  had  handed  round  the  soup, 
the  chaplain  stood  up  and  said  grace.  Not  a  word 
had  been  spoken  yet.  They  ate  the  soup  in  silence, 
while  the  three  servants  stood  motionless.  The 
spoons  clinked  against  the  plates  and  the  marchesa 
smacked  her  lips.  The  candles  flickered  now  and 
again;  and  the  shadow  fell  more  oppressively,  like  a 
haze  of  black  velvet.  Then  Prince  Ercole  addressed 
the  marchesa.  And  turn  by  turn  he  addressed  them 


THE  INEVITABLE  191 

all,  with  a  kindly,  condescending  dignity,  in  French 
and  Italian.  The  conversation  became  a  little  more 
general,  but  the  old  prince  continued  to  lead  it. 
And  Cornelie  noticed  that  he  was  very  civil  to 
Urania.  But  she  remembered  Gilio's  words: 

"  Papa  nearly  had  a  stroke,  because  old  Hope 
haggled  over  Urania's  dowry.  Ten  millions  ?  Five 
millions?  Not  three  millions!  Dollars?  No, 
lire!" 

And  the  prince  suddenly  struck  her  as  the  grey- 
haired  egoism  of  San  Stefano's  glory  and  aristocratic 
pride,  struck  her  as  the  living  shade  of  the  past  that 
loomed  behind  him,  as  she  had  felt  it  that  after- 
noon, when  she  stood  gazing  with  Urania  into  the 
deep,  blue  lake:  an  exacting  shade;  a  shade  demand- 
ing millions;  a  shade  demanding  a  new  increment 
of  vitality;  a  spectral  parasite  who  had  sold  his  de- 
preciated symbols  to  gratify  the  vanity  of  a  new 
commercial  house,  but  who,  in  his  distinction,  had 
been  no  match  for  the  merchant's  cunning.  Their 
title  of  princess  and  duchess  for  less  than  three  mil- 
lion lire !  Papa  had  almost  had  a  stroke,  Gilio  had 
said.  And  Cornelie,  during  the  measured,  affable 
stiffness  of  the  conversation  led  by  Prince  Ercole, 
looked  from  the  old  prince  and  duke,  seventy  years 
of  age,  to  the  breezy  young  Far-Westerner,  aged 
eighteen,  and  from  him  to  Prince  Gilio,  the  hope  of 
the  old  house,  its  only  hope.  Here,  in  the  gloom 
of  this  dining-room,  where  he  was  bored  and  more- 
over still  out  of  temper,  he  seemed  small,  insignifi- 
cant, shrunken,  a  paltry,  distinguished  little  viveur; 
and  his  carbuncle  eyes,  which  could  sparkle  merrily 
with  wit  and  depravity,  now  looked  dully,  from  un- 
der their  drooping  lids,  upon  his  plate,  at  which  he 
picked  without  appetite. 

She  felt  sorry  for  him;  and  her  mind  went  back 
to  the  golden  bridal  chamber.  She  despised  him  a 


i92  THE  INEVITABLE 

little.  She  looked  upon  him  not  so  much  as  a  man 
who  could  not  obtain  what  he  wanted  but  rather 
as  a  naughty  boy.  And  he  must  feel  jealous  of  Bob, 
she  reflected:  jealous  of  his  young  blood,  which 
tingled  in  his  cheeks,  of  his  broad  shoulders  and  his 
broad  chest.  But  still  he  amused  her.  He  could 
be  very  agreeable,  gay  and  witty  and  vivacious,  when 
in  the  mood,  vivacious  in  his  words  and  in  his  wits. 
She  liked  him,  when  all  was  said.  And  then  he  was 
good-hearted.  She  thought  of  the  bracelet  and  espe- 
cially the  thousand  lire,  always  remembered,  with 
a  certain  emotion,  how  touched  she  had  been  during 
that  walk  up  and  down  past  the  post-office,  how 
touched  by  his  letter  and  his  generous  assistance. 
He  had  no  backbone,  he  was  not  a  man  to  her;  but 
he  was  witty  and  he  had  a  very  good  heart.  She 
liked  him  as  a  friend  and  a  pleasant  companion. 
How  dejected  and  moody  he  was!  But  then  why 
would  he  venture  on  those  silly  enterprises?  .  .  . 

She  spoke  to  him  now  and  again,  but  could  not 
succeed  in  rousing  him  from  his  depression.  For 
the  rest,  the  conversation  dragged  on  stiffly  and  af- 
fably, always  led  by  Prince  Ercole.  The  dinner 
came  to  an  end;  and  Prince  Ercole  rose  from  his 
chair.  Giuseppe  handed  him  his  skull-cap;  every 
one  said  good-night  to  him;  the  doors  were  opened 
and  Prince  Ercole  withdrew,  leaning  on  his  chap- 
lain's arm.  Gilio,  still  angry,  disappeared.  The 
marchesa,  still  terrified  of  Cornelie,  also  disap- 
peared, making  the  jettatura  at  her  in  the  folds  of 
her  dress.  And  Urania  took  Cornelie  and  Bob  back 
with  her  to  her  own  drawing-room.  They  all  three 
breathed  again.  They  all  talked  freely,  in  English : 
the  boy  said  in  despair  that  he  wasn't  getting  enough 
to  eat,  that  he  dared  not  eat  enough  to  stay  his  hun- 
ger; and  Cornelie  laughed,  thinking  him  jolly,  be- 
cause of  his  wholesomeness,  while  Urania  hunted 


THE  INEVITABLE  193 

out  some  biscuits  for  him  and  a  piece  of  cake  left 
over  from  tea  and  promised  that  he  should  have 
some  cold  meat  and  bread  before  they  went  to  bed. 
And  they  relaxed  their  minds  after  the  pompous, 
stately  meal.  Urania  said  that  the  old  prince  never 
appeared  except  at  dinner,  but  that  she  always 
looked  him  up  in  the  morning  and  sat  talking  to  him 
for  an  hour  or  playing  chess  with  him.  At  other 
times  he  played  chess  with  the  chaplain.  She  was 
very  busy,  Urania.  The  reorganizing  of  the  house- 
keeping, which  used  to  be  left  to  a  poor  relation, 
who  now  lived  at  a  pension  in  Rome,  took  up  a  lot 
of  her  time.  In  the  mornings,  she  discussed  a  host 
of  details  with  Prince  Ercole,  who,  notwithstanding 
his  secluded  life,  knew  about  everything.  Then  she 
had  consultations  with  her  architect  from  Rome 
about  the  restorations  to  be  effected  in  the  castle: 
these  consultations  were  sometimes  held  in  the  old 
prince's  study.  Then  she  was  having  a  big  hostel 
built  in  the  town,  an  albergo  del  poveri,  a  hostel  for 
old  men  and  women,  for  which  old  Hope  had  given 
her  a  separate  endowment.  When  she  first  came  to 
San  Stefano  she  had  been  struck  by  the  ruinous, 
tumbledown  houses  and  cottages  of  the  poorer  quar- 
ters, leprous  and  scabby  with  filth,  eaten  up  by  their 
own  poverty,  in  which  a  whole  population  vegetated 
like  toadstools.  She  was  now  building  the  hostel 
for  the  old  people,  finding  work  on  the  estate  for 
the  young  and  healthy  and  looking  after  the  ne- 

fleeted  children;  she  had  built  a  new  school-house, 
he  talked  about  all  this  very  simply,  while  cutting 
cake  for  her  brother  Bob,  who  was  tucking  in  after 
his  formal  dinner.  She  asked  Cornelie  to  come 
with  her  one  morning  to  see  how  the  albergo  was 
progressing,  to  see  the  new  school,  run  by  two  priests 
who  had  been  recommended  to  her  by  the  monsig- 
nori. 


194  THE  INEVITABLE 

Through  the  pointed  windows  the  town  loomed 
faintly  in  the  depths  below;  and  the  lines  of  the  ca- 
thedral rose  high  into  the  sultry,  star-spangled  night. 
And  Cornelie  thought  to  herself: 

"  It  was  not  only  for  a  shadow  and  an  unsubstan- 
tial shade  that  she  came  here,  the  rich  American  who 
thought  titles  '  so  nice,'  the  child  who  used  to  collect 
patterns  of  the  queen's  ball-dresses  —  she  hides  the 
album  now  that  she  is  a  '  black '  princess  —  the  girl 
who  used  to  trip  through  the  Forum  in  her  white- 
serge  tailor-made,  without  understanding  either  an- 
cient Rome  or  the  dawn  of  the  new  future." 

And,  as  Cornelie  went  to  her  own  room  through 
the  silent  heavy  darkness  of  the  Castle  of  San  Ste- 
fano,  she  thought: 

"  I  write,  but  she  acts.  I  dream  and  think;  but 
she  teaches  the  children,  though  it  be  with  the  aid 
of  a  priest;  she  feeds  and  houses  old  men  and 


women." 


Then,  in  her  room,  looking  out  at  the  lake  under 
the  summer  night  all  dusted  with  stars,  she  reflected 
that  she  too  would  like  to  be  rich  and  to  have  a  wide 
field  of  labour.  For  now  she  had  no  field,  now  she 
had  no  money  and  now  .  .  .  now  she  longed  only 
for  Duco;  and  he  must  not  leave  her  too  long  alone 
in  this  castle,  amid  all  this  sombre  greatness,  which 
oppressed  her  as  with  the  weight  of  the  centuries. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

Next  morning  Urania's  maid  was  showing  Cor- 
nelie through  a  maze  of  galleries  to  the  garden, 
where  breakfast  was  to  be  served,  when  she  met 
Gilio  on  the  stairs.  The  maid  turned  back. 

"  I  still  need  a  guide  to  find  my  way,"  Cornelie 
laughed. 

He  grunted  some  reply. 

"  How  did  you  sleep,  prince?." 

He  gave  another  grunt. 

"  Look  here,  prince,  there  must  be  an  end  of  this 
ill-temper  of  yours.  Do  you  hear?  It's  got  to 
finish.  I  insist.  I  won't  have  any  more  sulking  to- 
day; and  I  hope  that  you'll  go  back  to  your  cheer- 
ful, witty  style  of  conversation  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  that's  what  I  like  in  you." 

He  mumbled  something. 

"  Good-bye,  prince,"  said  Cornelie,  curtly. 

And  she  turned  to  go  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  my  room.     I  shall  breakfast  in  my  room." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  I  don't  care  for  you  as  a  host." 

"Me?" 

"  Yes,  you.  Yesterday  you  insult  me.  I  defend 
myself,  you  go  on  being  rude,  I  at  once  become  as 
amiable  as  ever,  I  give  you  my  hand,  I  even  give 
you  a  kiss.  At  dinner  you  sulk  with  me  in  the  most 
uncivil  fashion.  You  go  to  bed  without  bidding  me 
good-night.  This  morning  you  meet  me  without  a 
word  of  greeting.  You  grunt,  sulk  and  mumble 
like  a  naughty  child.  Your  eyes  are  blazing  with 
anger,  you  are  yellow  with  spleen.  Really,  you're 

195 


196  THE  INEVITABLE 

looking  very  bad.  It  doesn't  suit  you  at  all.  You 
are  most  unpleasant,  rough,  rude  and  petty.  I  have 
no  inclination  to  breakfast  with  you  in  that  mood. 
And  I'm  going  to  my  room." 

"  No,"  he  implored. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"No,  no!" 

"  Then  be  different.  Make  an  effort,  don't  think 
any  more  about  your  defeat  and  be  nice  to  me. 
You're  behaving  as  the  offended  party,  whereas  it 
is  I  who  ought  to  take  offence.  But  I  don't  know 
how  to  sulk  and  I  am  not  petty.  I  can't  behave 
pettily.  I  forgive  you;  do  you  forgive  me  too. 
Say  something  nice,  say  something  pleasant." 

"  I  am  mad  about  you." 

"  You  don't  show  it.  If  you're  mad  about  me,  be 
pleasant,  civil,  gay  and  witty.  I  demand  it  of  you 
as  my  host." 

"  I  won't  sulk  any  longer  .  .  .  but  I  do  love  you 
so !  And  you  struck  me !  " 

"  Will  you  never  forget  that  act  of  self-defence?  " 

"No,  never!" 

"  Then  good-bye." 

She  turned  to  go. 

"  No,  no,  don't  go  back.  Come  to  breakfast  in 
the  pergola.  I  apologize,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
won't  be  rude  again,  I  won't  be  petty.  You  are  not 
petty.  You  are  the  most  wonderful  woman  I  ever 
met.  I  worship  you." 

"  Then  worship  in  silence  and  amuse  me." 

His  eyes,  his  black  carbuncle  eyes,  began  to  light 
up  again,  to  laugh;  his  face  lost  its  wrinkles  and 
cheered  up. 

"  I  am  too  sad  to  be  amusing." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  Honestly,  I  am  full  of  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing.  .  .  ." 


THE  INEVITABLE  197 

"Poor  prince!  " 

"  You  just  won't  believe  me.  You  never  take  me 
seriously.  I  have  to  be  your  clown,  your  buffoon. 
And  I  love  you  and  have  nothing  to  hope  for.  Tell 
me,  mayn't  I  hope?  " 

'  Not  much." 

'  You  are  inexorable  .  .  .  and  so  severe !  " 

"  I  have  to  be  severe  with  you :  you  are  just  like 
a  naughty  boy.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  see  the  pergola !  Do 
you  promise  to  improve?  " 

"  I  shall  be  good." 

"  And  amusing?  " 

He  heaved  a  sigh : 

"  Poor  Gilio!  "  he  sighed.     "  Poor  buffoon!  " 

She  laughed.  In  the  pergola  were  Urania  and 
Bob  Hope.  The  pergola,  overgrown  with  creep- 
ing vine  and  rambler  roses  hanging  in  crimson 
clusters,  displayed  a  row  of  marble  caryatides  and 
hermes  —  nymphs,  satyrs  and  fauns  —  whose  torsos 
ended  in  slender,  sculptured  pedestals,  while  their 
raised  hands  supported  the  flat  roof  of  leaves  and 
flowers.  In  the  middle  was  an  open  rotunda  like 
an  open  temple  ;jhe  circular  balustrade  was  also  sup- 
ported by  caryatides;  and  an  ancient  sarcophagus 
had  been  adapted  to  serve  as  a  cistern.  A  table  was 
laid  for  breakfast  in  the  pergola;  and  they  break- 
fasted without  old  Prince  Ercole  or  the  marchesa, 
who  broke  her  fast  in  her  room.  It  was  eight 
o'clock;  a  morning  coolness  was  still  wafted  from  the 
lake ;  a  haze  of  blue  gossamer  floated  over  the  hills, 
in  the  heart  of 'which,  as  though  surrounded  by  a 
gently  fluted  basin,  the  lake  was  sunk  like  an  oval 
goblet. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  is  here !  "  cried  Cornelie, 
delightedly. 

Breakfast  was  a  sunny  and  cheerful  meal,  after 
yesterday's  dark  and  gloomy  dinner.  Urania  talked 


i98  THE  INEVITABLE 

vivaciously  about  her  albergo,  which  she  was  going 
to  visit  presently  with  Cornelie,  Gilio  recovered  his 
amiability  and  Bob  ate  heartily.  And,  when  Bob 
went  off  bicycling,  Gilio  even  accompanied  the  la- 
dies to  the  town.  They  drove  at  a  foot-pace  in  a 
landau  down  the  castle  road.  The  sun  grew  hotter 
and  the  little  old  town  lit  up,  with  whitish-grey  and 
creamy-white  houses  like  stone  mirrors,  in  which  the 
sun  reflected  itself,  and  little  open  spaces  like  walls, 
into  which  the  sun  poured  its  light.  The  coachman 
pulled  up  outside  the  partly-finished  alberg».  They 
all  alighted;  the  contractor  approached  ceremoni- 
ously; the  perspiring  masons  looked  round  at  the 
prince  and  princess.  The  heat  was  stifling.  Gilio 
kept  on  wiping  his  forehead  and  sheltered  under  Cor- 
nelie's  parasol.  But  Urania  was  all  vivacity  and 
interest;  quick  and  full  of  energy  in  her  white-pique 
costume,  with  her  white  sailor-hat  under  her  white 
sun-shade,  she  tripped  along  planks,  past  heaps  of 
bricks  and  cement  and  tubs  full  of  mortar,  accom- 
panied by  her  contractor.  She  made  him  explain 
things,  proffered  advice,  disagreed  with  him  at  times 
and  pulled  a  wise  face,  saying  that  she  did  not  like 
certain  measurements  and  refused  to  accept  the  con- 
tractor's assurance  that  she  would  like  the  measure- 
ments as  the  building  progressed;  she  shook  her 
head  and  impressed  this  and  that  upon  him,  all  in  a 
quick,  none  too  correct,  broken  Italian,  which  she 
chewed  between  her  teeth.  But  Cornelie  thought 
her  charming,  attractive,  every  inch  the  Princess  di 
Forte-Braccio.  There  was  not  a  doubt  about  it. 
While  Gilio,  fearful  of  dirtying  his  light  flannel  suit 
and  brown  shoes  with  the  mortar,  remained  in  the 
shadow  of  her  parasol,  puffing  and  blowing  with  the 
heat  and  taking  no  interest  whatever,  his  wife  was 
untiring,  did  not  trouble  to  think  that  her  white 
skirt  was  becoming  soiled  at  the  hem  and  spoke  to 


THE  INEVITABLE  199 

the  contractor  with  a  lively  and  dignified  certainty 
which  compelled  respect.  Where  had  the  child 
learnt  that?  Where  had  she  acquired  her  powers 
of  assimilation?  Where  did  she  get  this  love  for 
San  Stefano,  this  love  for  its  poor?  How  had  the 
American  girl  picked  up  this  talent  for  filling  her 
new  and  exalted  position  so  worthily?  Gilio 
thought  her  admirabile  and  whispered  as  much  to 
Cornelie.  He  was  not  blind  to  her  good  qualities. 
He  thought  Urania  splendid,  excellent;  she  always 
astounded  him.  No  Italian  woman  of  his  own  set 
would  have  been  like  that.  And  they  liked  her. 
The  servants  at  the  castle  loved  her.  Giuseppe 
would  have  gone  through  fire  and  water  for  her; 
that  contractor  admired  her;  the  masons  followed 
her  respectfully  with  their  eyes,  because  she  was  so 
clever  and  knew  so  much  and  was  so  good  to  them 
in  their  poverty. 

"  Admirabile!  "  said  Gilio. 

But  he  puffed  and  blowed.  He  knew  nothing 
about  bricks,  beams  and  measurements  and  did  not 
understand  where  Urania  had  got  that  technical 
sense  from.  She  was  indefatigable.  She  went  all 
over  the  works,  while  he  cast  up  his  eyes  to  Cornelie 
in  entreaty.  And  at  last,  speaking  in  English,  he 
begged  his  wife  in  Heaven's  name  to  come  away. 
They  went  back  to  the  carriage ;  the  contractor  took 
off  his  hat,  the  workmen  raised  their  caps  with  an 
air  of  mingled  gratitude  and  independence.  And 
they  drove  to  the  cathedral,  which  Cornelie  wanted 
to  see.  Urania  showed  her  round.  Gilio  asked 
to  be  excused  and  went  and  sat  on  the  steps  of  the 
altar,  with  his  hands  hanging  over  his  knees,  to  cool 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  week  had  passed.  Duco  had  arrived.  After 
the  solemn  dinner  in  the  gloomy  dining-room,  where 
Duco  had  been  presented  to  Prince  Ercole,  the  sum- 
mer evening,  when  Cornelie  and  Duco  went  outside, 
was  like  a  dream.  The  castle  was  already  wrapped 
in  heavy  repose;  but  Cornelie  had  made  Giuseppe 
give  her  a  key.  And  they  went  out,  to  the  pergola. 
The  stars  dusted  the  night  sky  with  a  pale  radiance; 
and  the  moon  crowned  the  hill-tops  and  shimmered 
faintly  in  the  mystic  depths  of  the  lake.  A  breath 
of  sleeping  roses  was  wafted  from  the  flower-garden 
beyond  the  pergola;  and  below,  in  the  flat-roofed 
town,  the  cathedral,  standing  in  its  moonlit  square, 
lifted  its  gigantic  fabric  to  the  stars.  And  sleep 
hung  everywhere,  over  the  lake,  over  the  town  and 
behind  the  windows  of  the  castle ;  the  caryatides  and 
hermes  —  the  satyrs  and  nymphs  —  slept,  as  they 
bore  the  leafy  roof  of  the  pergola,  in  the  enchanted 
attitudes  of  the  servants  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  A 
cricket  chirped,  but  fell  silent  the  moment  that  Duco 
and  Cornelie  approached.  And  they  sat  down  on 
an  antique  bench;  and  she  flung  her  arms  about  his 
body  and  nestled  against  him: 

"A  week!"  she  whispered.  "A  whole  week 
since  I  saw  you,  Duco,  my  darling.  I  cannot  do  so 
long  without  you.  At  everything  that  I  thought  and 
saw  and  admired  I  thought  of  you,  of  how  lovely 
you  would  think  it  here.  You  have  been  here  once 
before  on  an  excursion.  Oh,  but  that  is  so  different ! 
It  is  so  beautiful  just  to  stay  here,  not  just  to  go 
on,  but  to  remain.  That  lake,  that  cathedral,  those 

200 


THE  INEVITABLE  201 

hills!  The  rooms  indoors:  neglected  but  so  won- 
derful! The  three  courtyards  are  dilapidated,  the 
fountains  are  crumbling  to  pieces  .  .  .  but  the  style 
of  the  atrio,  the  sombre  gloom  of  the  dining-room, 
the  poetry  of  this  pergola !  .  .  .  Duco,  doesn't  the 
pergola  remind  you  of  a  classic  ode?  You  know 
how  we  used  to  read  Horace  together:  you  trans- 
lated the  verses  so  well,  you  improvised  so  delight- 
fully. How  clever  you  are !  You  know  so  much, 
you  feel  things  so  beautifully.  I  love  your  eyes, 
your  voice,  I  love  you  altogether,  I  love  everything 
that  is  you  ...  I  can't  tell  you  how  much,  Duco. 
I  have  gradually  surrendered  myself  to  every  word 
of  you,  to  every  sensation  of  you,  to  your  love  for 
Rome,  to  your  love  for  museums,  to  your  manner  of 
seeing  the  skies  which  you  put  into  your  drawings. 
You  are  so  deliciously  calm,  almost  like  this  lake. 
Oh,  don't  laugh,  don't  make  a  jest  of  it:  it's  a  week 
since  I  saw  you,  I  feel  such  a  need  to  talk  to  you ! 
Is  it  exaggerated?  I  don't  feel  quite  normal  here 
either :  there  is  something  in  that  sky,  in  that  light, 
that  makes  me  talk  like  this.  It  is  so  beautiful  that 
I  can  hardly  believe  that  all  this  is  ordinary  life,  ordi- 
nary reality.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember,  at  Sorrento, 
on  the  terrace  of  the  hotel,  when  we  looked  out  over 
the  sea,  over  that  pearl-grey  sea,  with  Naples  lying 
white  in  the  distance?  I  felt  like  this  then;  but  then 
I  dared  not  speak  like  this:  it  was  in  the  morning; 
there  were  people  about,  whom  we  didn't  see  but 
who  saw  us  and  whom  I  suspected  all  around  me; 
but  now  we  are  alone  and  now  I  want  to  tell  you,  in 
your  arms,  against  your  breast,  how  happy  I  am!  I 
love  you  so !  All  my  soul,  all  that  is  finest  in  me  is 
for  you.  You  laugh,  but  you  don't  believe  me. 
Or  do  you?  Do  you  believe  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you,  I  am  not  laughing  at  you,  I 
am  only  just  laughing.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  beautiful  here. 


202  THE  INEVITABLE 

...  I  also  feel  happy.  I  am  so  happy  in  you  and 
in  my  art.  You  taught  me  to  work,  you  roused  me 
from  my  dreams.  I  am  so  happy  about  The  Ban- 
ners: I  have  heard  from  London;  I  will  show  you 
the  letters  to-morrow.  I  have  you  to  thank  for 
everything.  It  is  almost  incredible  that  this  is  ordi- 
nary life.  I  have  been  so  quiet  too  in  Rome.  I 
saw  nobody;  I  just  worked  a  bit,  not  very  much; 
and  I  had  my  meals  alone  in  the  osteria.  The  two 
Italians  —  you  know  the  men  I  mean  —  felt  sorry 
for  me,  I  think.  Oh,  it  was  a  terrible  week!  I 
can  no  longer  do  without  you.  .  .  .  Do  you  remem- 
ber our  first  walks  and  talks  in  the  Borghese  and  on 
the  Palatine?  How  strange  we  were  to  each  other 
then,  not  a  bit  in  unison.  But  I  believe  I  felt  at 
once  that  all  would  be  well  and  beautiful  between 
us.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent  and  lay  against  his  breast.  The 
cricket  chirped  again,  with  a  long  quaver.  But 
everything  else  slept.  .  .  . 

"  Between  us,"  she  repeated,  as  though  in  a  fever; 
and  she  embraced  him  passionately. 

The  whole  night  slept;  and,  while  they  breathed 
their  life  in  each  other's  arms,  the  enchanted  carya- 
tides —  fauns  and  nymphs  —  lifted  the  leafy  roof 
of  the  pergola  above  their  heads,  between  them  and 
the  star-spangled  sky. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

Gilio  hated  the  villeggiatura  at  San  Stefano. 
Every  morning  he  had  to  be  up  and  dressed  by  six 
o'clock,  with  Prince  Ercole,  Urania  and  the  mar- 
chesa,  to  hear  mass  said  by  the  chaplain  in  the  pri- 
vate chapel  of  the  castle.  After  that,  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  his  time.  He  had  gone 
bicycling  once  or  twice  with  Bob  Hope,  but  the 
young  Far-Westerner  had  too  much  energy  for  him, 
like  Bob's  sister,  Urania.  He  flirted  and  argued  a 
little  with  Cornelie,  but  secretly  he  was  still  offended 
and  angry  with  himself  and  her.  He  remembered 
her  first  arrival  that  evening  at  the  Palazzo  Ruspoli, 
when  she  came  and  disturbed  his  rendez-vous  with 
Urania.  And  in  the  camera  degll  sposi  she  had  for 
the  second  time  been  too  much  for  him !  He  seethed 
with  fury  when  he  thought  of  it  and  he  hated  her 
and  swore  by  all  his  gods  to  be  revenged.  He 
cursed  his  own  lack  of  resolution.  He  had  been  too 
weak  to  use  violence  or  force  and  there  ought  never 
to  have  been  any  need  to  resort  to  force:  he  was 
accustomed  to  a  quick  surrender.  And  he  had  to 
be  told  by  her,  that  Dutchwoman,  that  his  tempera- 
ment did  not  respond  to  hers !  What  was  there 
about  that  woman?  What  did  she  mean  by  it? 
He  was  so  unaccustomed  to  thinking,  he  was  such  a 
thoughtless,  easy-going,  Italian  child  of  nature,  so 
accustomed  to  let  his  life  run  on  according  to  his 
every  whim  and  impulse,  that  he  hardly  understood 
her  —  though  he  suspected  the  meaning  of  her 
words  —  hardly  understood  that  reserve  of  hers. 
Why  should  she  behave  so  to  him,  this  foreigner 

203 


204  THE  INEVITABLE 

with  her  demoniacal  new  ideas,  who  cared  nothing 
aboui  the  world,  who  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
marriage,  who  lived  with  a  painter  as  his  mistress! 
She  had  no  religion  and  no  morals  —  he  knew  about 
religion  and  morals  —  she  belonged  to  the  devil; 
demoniacal  was  what  she  was:  didn't  she  know  all 
about  Aunt  Lucia  Belloni's  manoeuvres?  And 
hadn't  Aunt  Lucia  warned  him  lately  that  she  was 
a  dangerous  woman,  an  uncanny  woman,  a  woman 
of  the  devil?  She  was  a  witch!  Why  should  she 
refuse?  Hadn't  he  plainly  seen  her  figure  last  night 
going  through  the  courtyard  in  the  moonlight,  be- 
side Van  der  Staal's  figure,  and  hadn't  he  seen  them 
opening  the  door  that  led  to  the  terrace  by  the 
pergola  ?  And  hadn't  he  waited  an  hour,  two  hours, 
without  sleeping,  until  he  saw  them  come  back  and 
lock  the  door  after  them?  And  why  did  she  love 
only  him,  that  painter?  Oh,  he  hated  him,  with  all 
the  blazing  hatred  of  his  jealousy;  he  hated  her,  for 
her  exclusiveness,  for  her  disdain,  for  all  her  jesting 
and  flirting,  as  though  he  were  a  buffoon,  a  clown! 
What  was  it  that  he  asked?  A  favour  of  love, 
such  as  she  granted  her  lover !  He  was  not  asking 
for  anything  serious,  any  oath  or  lifelong  tie;  he 
asked  for  so  little:  just  one  hour  of  love.  It  was 
of  no  importance:  he  had  never  looked  upon  that 
as  of  much  importance.  And  she,  she  refused  it  to 
him !  No,  he  did  not  understand  her,  but  what  he 
did  understand  was  that  she  disdained  him;  and  he, 
he  hated  the  pair  of  them.  And  yet  he  was 
enamoured  of  her  with  all  the  violence  of  his 
thwarted  passion.  In  the  boredom  of  that  villeggi- 
atura,  to  which  his  wife  forced  him  in  her  new  love 
for  their  ruined  eyrie,  his  hatred  and  the  thought  of 
his  revenge  formed  an  occupation  for  his  empty 
brains.  Outwardly  he  was  the  same  as  usual  and 
flirted  with  Cornelie,  flirted  even  more  than  usual, 


THE  INEVITABLE  205 

to  annoy  Van  der  Staal.  And,  when  his  cousin,  the 
Countess  di  Rosavilla  —  his  "  white  "  cousin,  the 
lady-in-waiting  to  the  queen  —  came  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  them,  he  flirted  with  her  too  and  tried  to 
provoke  Cornelie's  jealousy.  He  failed  in  this,  how- 
ever, and  consoled  himself  with  the  countess,  who 
made  up  to  him  for  his  disappointment.  She  was 
no  longer  a  young  woman,  but  represented  the  cold, 
sculptured  Juno  type,  with  a  rather  foolish  express- 
ion; she  had  Juno  eyes,  protruding  from  their  sock- 
ets; she  was  a  leader  of  fashion  at  the  Quirinal  and 
in  the  "  white  "  world;  and  her  reputation  for  gal- 
lantry was  generally  known.  She  had  never  had  a 
liaison  with  Gilio  that  lasted  for  longer  than  an 
hour.  She  had  very  simple  ideas  on  love,  without 
much  variety.  Her  light-hearted  depravity  amused 
Gilio.  And,  flirting  in  the  corners,  with  his  foot  on 
hers  under  her  skirt,  Gilio  told  her  about  Cornelie, 
about  Duco  and  about  the  adventure  in  the  camera 
degli  sposi  and  asked  his  cousin  whether  she  under- 
stood. No,  the  Countess  di  Rosavilla  did  not 
understand  it  any  too  well  either.  Temperament? 
Oh,  yes,  perhaps  she  —  questa  Cornelia  —  pre- 
ferred fair  men  to  dark:  there  were  women  who 
had  a  preference !  And  Gilio  laughed.  It  was  so 
simple,  I'amore;  there  wasn't  very  much  to  be  said 
about  it. 

Cornelie  was  glad  that  Gilio  had  the  countess  to 
amuse  him.  She  and  Duco  interested  themselves  in 
Urania's  plans;  Duco  had  long  talks  with  the 
architect.  And  he  was  indignant  and  advised  them 
not  to  rebuild  so  much  in  that  undistinguished 
restoration  manner:  it  was  lacking  in  style,  cost 
heaps  of  money  and  spoilt  everything. 

Urania  was  disconcerted,  but  Duco  went  on,  in- 
terrupted the  architect,  advised  him  to  build  up  only 
what  was  actually  falling  to  pieces,  and,  so  far  as 


2o6  THE  INEVITABLE 

possible,  to  confine  himself  to  underpinning,  reinfor- 
cing and  preserving.  And  one  morning  Prince 
Ercole  deigned  to  walk  through  the  long  rooms  with 
Duco,  Urania  and  Cornelie.  There  was  a  great 
deal  to  be  done,  Duco  considered,  by  merely  repair- 
ing and  artistically  arranging  what  at  present  stood 
thoughtlessly  huddled  together. 

'  The  curtains?  "  asked  Urania. 

"Let  them  be,"  Duco  considered.  "At  the 
most,  new  window-curtains;  but  the  old  red  Vene- 
tian damask;  oh,  let  it  be,  let  it  be!  " 

It  was  so  beautiful;  here  and  there  it  might 
be  patched,  very  carefully.  He  was  horrified  at 
Urania's  notion :  new  curtains  1  And  the  old  prince 
was  enraptured,  because  in  this  way  the  restoration 
of  San  Stefano  would  cost  thousands  less  and  be 
much  more  artistic.  He  regarded  his  daughter-in- 
law's  money  as  his  own  and  preferred  it  to  her. 
He  was  enraptured:  he  took  Duco  with  him  to  his 
library,  showed  him  the  old  missals,  the  old  family 
books  and  papers,  charters  and  deeds  of  gift, 
showed  him  his  coins  and  medals.  It  was  all  out  of 
order  and  neglected,  first  from  lack  of  money  and 
then  from  slighting  indifference;  but  now  Urania 
wanted  to  reorganize  the  family  museum  with  the 
aid  of  experts  from  Rome,  Florence  and  Bologna. 
The  old  prince's  interest  revived,  now  that  there 
was  money.  And  the  experts  came  and  stayed  at 
the  castle  and  Duco  spent  whole  mornings  in  their 
company.  He  enjoyed  every  moment  of  it.  He 
lived  in  his  enchantment  of  the  past,  no  longer  in 
the  days  of  antiquity,  but  in  the  middle  ages  and  the 
Renascence.  The  days  were  too  short.  And  his 
love  for  San  Stefano  became  such  that  one  day  an 
archivist  took  him  for  the  young  prince,  for  Prince 
Virgilio.  At  dinner  that  evening  Prince  Ercole  told 
the  story.  And  everybody  laughed,  but  Gilio 


THE  INEVITABLE  207 

thought  the  joke  beyond  price,  whereas  the  archivist, 
who  was  there  at  dinner,  did  not  know  how  to 
apologize  sufficiently. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

Gilio  had  followed  the  advice  of  his  cousin,  the 
Countess  di  Rosavilla.  Immediately  after  dinner, 
he  had  stolen  outside;  and  he  walked  along  the 
pergola  to  the  rotunda,  into  which  the  moonlight 
fell  as  into  a  white  beaker.  But  there  was  shadow 
behind  a  couple  of  caryatides;  and  here  he  hid.  He 
waited  for  an  hour.  But  the  night  slept,  the  carya- 
tides slept,  standing  motionless  and  supporting  the 
leafy  roof.  He  uttered  a  curse  and  stole  indoors 
again.  He  walked  down  the  corridors  on  tiptoe 
and  listened  at  Van  der  Staal's  door.  He  heard  no- 
thing, but  perhaps  Van  der  Staal  was  asleep?  .  .  . 

Gilio,  however,  crept  along  another  corridor  and 
listened  at  Cornelie's  door.  He  held  his  breath. 
.  .  .  Yes,  there  was  a  sound  of  voices.  They  were 
together!  Together!  He  clenched  his  fists  and 
walked  away.  But  why  did  he  excite  himself?  He 
knew  all  about  their  relations.  Why  should  they 
not  be  together  here?  And  he  went  on  and  tapped 
at  the  countess'  door.  .  .  . 

Next  evening  he  again  waited  in  the  rotunda. 
They  did  not  come.  But,  a  few  evenings  later,  as 
he  sat  waiting,  choking  with  annoyance,  he  saw  them 
come.  He  saw  Duco  lock  the  terrace-door  behind 
him:  the  rusty  lock  grated  in  the  distance.  Slowly 
he  saw  them  walk  along  and  approach  in  the  light, 
disappearing  from  view  in  the  shadow,  reappearing 
in  the  moonlight.  They  sat  down  on  the  marble 
bench.  .  .  . 

How  happy  they  seemed!     He  was  jealous   of 

their  happiness,   jealous   above   all   of  him.     And 

208 


THE  INEVITABLE  209 

how  gentle  and  tender  she  was,  she  who  considered 
him,  Gilio,  only  good  enough  for  her  amusement,  to 
flirt  with,  a  clown :  she,  the  devilish  woman,  was 
angelic  to  the  man  she  loved!  She  bent  towards 
her  lover  with  a  smiling  caress,  with  a  curve  of  her 
arm,  with  a  proffering  of  her  lips,  with  something 
intensely  alluring,  with  a  velvety  languor  of  love 
which  he  would  never  have  suspected  in  her,  after 
her  cold,  jesting  flirtation  with  him,  Gilio.  She 
was  now  leaning  on  Duco's  arms,  on  his  breast,  with 
her  face  against  his.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  her  kiss  filled 
Gilio  with  flame  and  fury !  This  was  no  longer  her 
icy  lack  of  sensuous  response  towards  him,  Gilio, 
in  the  camera  degli  sposi.  And  he  could  restrain 
himself  no  longer:  he  would  at  least  disturb  their  mo- 
ment of  happiness.  And,  quivering  in  every  nerve, 
he  stepped  from  behind  the  caryatides  and  went  to- 
wards them,  through  the  rotunda.  Lost  in  each 
other's  eyes,  they  did  not  see  him  at  once.  But, 
suddenly,  simultaneously,  they  both  started;  their 
arms  fell  apart  then  and  there;  they  sprang  up  in 
one  movement;  they  saw  him  approaching  but  evi- 
dently did  not  at  once  recognize  him.  Not  until 
he  was  closer  did  they  perceive  who  he  was;  and 
they  looked  at  him  in  startled  silence,  wondering 
what  he  would  say.  He  made  a  satirical  bow : 

"A  delightful  evening,  isn't  it?  The  view  is 
lovely,  like  this,  at  night,  from  the  pergola.  You 
are  right  to  come  and  enjoy  it.  I  hope  that  I  am 
not  disturbing  you  with  my  unexpected  company?  " 

His  tremulous  voice  sounded  so  spiteful  and 
aggressive  that  they  could  not  doubt  the  violence 
of  his  anger. 

"  Not  at  all,  prince !  "  replied  Cornelie,  recover- 
ing her  composure.  "  Though  I  can't  imagine  what 
you  are  doing  here,  at  this  hour." 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  here,  at  this  hour?  " 


210  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  What  am  I  doing?  I  am  sitting  with  Van  der 
Staal.  .  .  ." 

"At  this  hour?" 

"  At  this  hour !  What  do  you  mean,  prince,  what 
are  you  suggesting?  " 

'What  am  I  suggesting?  That  the  pergola  is 
closed  at  night." 

"  Prince,"  said  Duco,  "  your  tone  is  offensive." 

"  And  you  are  altogether  offensive." 

"  If  you  were  not  my  host,  I  would  strike  you  in 
the  face.  .  .  ." 

Cornelie  caught  Duco  by  the  arm;  the  prince 
cursed  and  clenched  his  fists. 

"  Prince,"  she  said,  "  you  have  obviously  come  to 
pick  a  quarreT  with  us.  Why?  What  objection 
can  you  have  to  my  meeting  Van  der  Staal  here  in. 
the  evening?  In  the  first  place,  our  relation  to- 
wards each  other  is  no  secret  for  you.  And  then  I 
think  it  unworthy  of  you  to  come  spying  on  us." 

"Unworthy?  Unworthy?"  He  had  lost  all 
self-control.  "  I  am  u/iworthy,  am  I,  and  petty  and 
rude  and  not  a  man  and  my  temperament  doesn't 
suit  you?  His  temperament  seems  to  suit  you  all 
right !  I  heard  the  kiss  you  gave  him !  She-devil  I 
Demon !  Never  have  I  been  insulted  as  I  have  by 
you.  I  have  never  put  up  with  so  much  from  any- 
body. I  will  put  up  with  no  more.  You  struck  me, 
you  demon,  you  she-devil!  And  now  he's  threat- 
ening to  strike  me!  My  patience  is  at  an  end.  I 
can't  bear  that  in  my  own  house  you  should  refuse 
me  what  you  give  to  him.  .  .  .  lie's  not  your  hus- 
band! He's  not  your  husband!  I  have  as  much 
right  to  you  as  he ;  and,  if  he  thinks  he  has  a  better 
right  than  I,  then  I  hate  him,  I  hate  him!  .  .  ." 

And,  blind  with  rage,  he  flew  at  Duco's  throat. 
The  attack  was  so  unexpected  that  Duco  stumbled. 
They  both  wrestled  furiously.  All  their  hidden 


THE  INEVITABLE  211 

antipathy  broke  forth  in  fury.  They  did  not  hear 
Cornelie's  entreaties,  they  struck  each  other  with 
their  fists,  they  grappled  with  arms  and  legs,  breast 
to  breast.  Then  Cornelie  saw  something  flash.  In 
the  moonlight  she  saw  that  the  prince  had  drawn  a 
knife.  But  the  very  movement  was  an  advantage 
to  Duco,  who  gripped  his  wrist  as  in  a  vice,  forced 
him  to  the  ground  and,  pressing  his  knee  on  Gilio's 
chest,  took  him  by  the  throat  with  his  other  hand. 

"  Let  go!  "  yelled  the  prince. 

"  Let  go  that  knife !  "  yelled  Duco. 

The  prince  obstinately  persisted: 

"  Let  go !  "  he  yelled  once  more. 

11  Let  go  that  knife." 

The  knife  dropped  from  his  fingers.  Duco 
grasped  it  and  rose  to  his  feet: 

"  Get  up,"  he  said,  "  we  can  continue  this  fight, 
if  you  like,  to-morrow,  under  less  primitive  con- 
ditions :  not  with  a  knife,  but  with  swords  or  pistols." 

The  prince  stood  panting,  blue  in  the  face.  .  .  . 
.When  he  came  to  himself,  he  said,  slowly: 

"  No,  I  will  not  fight  a  duel.  Unless  you  want 
to.  But  I  don't.  I  am  defeated.  She  has  a 
demoniacal  force  which  would  always  make  you  win, 
whatever  game  we  played.  We've  had  our  duel. 
This  struggle  tells  me  more  than  a  regular  duel 
would.  Only,  if  you  want  to  fight  me,  I  have  no 
objection.  But  I  now  know  for  certain  that  you 
would  kill  me.  She  protects  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  fight  a  duel  with  you,"  said 
Duco. 

"  Then  let  us  look  on  this  struggle  as  a  duel  and 
now  give  me  your  hand." 

Duco  put  out  his  hand;  Gilio  pressed  it: 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  bowing  before  Cornelie. 
"  I  have  insulted  you." 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  do  not  forgive  you." 


212  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  We  have  to  forgive  each  other.  I  forgive  you 
the  blow  you  struck  me." 

"  I  forgive  you  nothing.  I  shall  never  forgive 
you  this  evening's  work:  not  your  spying,  nor  your 
lack  of  self-control,  nor  the  rights  which  you  try 
to  claim  from  me,  an  unmarried  woman  —  whereas 
I  allow  you  no  rights  whatever  —  nor  your  attack, 
nor  your  knife." 

"  Are  we  enemies  then,  for  good?  " 

"  Yes,  for  good.  I  shall  leave  your  house  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  he  confessed,  humbly. 
"  Forgive  me.  I  am  hot-blooded." 

"  Until  now  I  looked  upon  you  as  a  gentle- 
man. .  .  ." 

"  I  am  also  an  Italian." 

"  I  do  not  forgive  you." 

"  I  once  proved  to  you  that  I  could  be  a  good 
friend.'; 

'  This  is  not  the  moment  to  remind  me  of  it." 

u  I  remind  you  of  everything  that  might  make 
you  more  gently  disposed  towards  me." 

;'  It  is  no  use." 

"  Enemies  then?  " 

'  Yes.  Let  us  go  indoors.  I  shall  leave  your 
house  to-morrow." 

"  I  will  do  any  penance  that  you  inflict  upon  me." 

"I  inflict  nothing.  I  want  this  conversation  to 
end  and  I  want  to  go  indoors." 

"  I  will  go  ahead  of  you." 

They  walked  up  the  pergola.  He  himself  opened 
the  terrace-door  and  let  them  in  before  him. 

They  went  in  silence  to  their  rooms.  The  castle 
lay  asleep  in  darkness.  The  prince  struck  a  match 
to  light  the  way.  Duco  was  the  first  to  reach  his 
room. 

"  I  will  light  you  to  your  room,"  said  the  prince, 
meekly. 


THE  INEVITABLE  213 

He  struck  a  second  match  and  accompanied  Cor- 
nelie  to  her  door.  Here  he  fell  on  his  knees : 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  whispered,  with  a  sob  in  his 
throat. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

And  without  more  she  locked  the  door  behind  her. 
He  remained  on  his  knees  for  another  moment. 
Then  he  slowly  rose  to  his  feet.  His  throat  hurt 
him.  His  shoulder  felt  as  though  it  were  dislocated. 

"  It's  over,"  he  muttered.  "  I  am  defeated. 
She  is  stronger  now  than  I,  but  not  because  she  is  a 
devil.  I  have  seen  them  together.  I  have  seen 
their  embrace.  She  is  stronger,  he  is  stronger  than 
I  ...  because  of  their  happiness.  I  feel  that,  be- 
cause of  their  happiness,  they  will  always  be  stronger 
than  I.  .  .  ." 

He  went  to  his  room,  which  adjoined  Urania's 
bedroom.  His  chest  heaved  with  sobs.  Dressed 
as  he  was,  he  flung  himself  sobbing  on  his  bed,  swal- 
lowing his  sobs  in  the  slumbering  night  that  hung 
over  the  castle.  Then  he  got  up  and  looked  out  or 
the  window.  He  saw  the  lake.  He  saw  the  per- 
gola, where  they  had  been  fighting.  The  night  was 
sleeping  there;  the  caryatides,  sleeping,  stood  out 
white  against  the  shadow.  And  his  eyes  sought  the 
exact  spot  of  their  struggle  and  of  his  defeat.  And, 
with  his  superstitious  faith  in  their  happiness,  he  be- 
came convinced  that  there  would  be  no  fighting 
against  it,  ever. 

Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  were 
flinging  a  load  off  his  back: 

"Fa  nientef"  he  said  to  console  himself.  " Do- 
mani  megliore.  .  .  ." 

And  he  meant  that  to-morrow  he  would  achieve, 
if  not  this  victory,  another.  Then,  with  eyes  still 
moist,  he  fell  asleep  like  a  child. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Urania  sobbed  nervously  in  Cornelie's  arms  when 
she  told  the  young  princess  that  she  was  leaving  that 
morning.  She  and  Duco  were  alone  with  Urania 
in  Urania's  own  drawing-room. 

"  What  has  happened?  "  she  sobbed. 

Cornelie  told  her  of  the  previous  evening : 

"  Urania,"  she  said,  seriously,  "  I  know  I  am  a 
coquette.  I  thought  it  pleasant  to  talk  with  Gilio; 
call  it  flirting,  if  you  like.  I  never  made  a  secret 
of  it,  either  to  Duco  or  to  you.  I  looked  upon  it  as 
an  amusement,  nothing  more.  Perhaps  I  did  wrong; 
I  know  it  annoyed  you  once  before.  I  promised 
not  to  do  it  again;  but  it  seems  to  be  beyond  my 
control.  It's  in  my  nature;  and  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  defend  myself.  I  looked  upon  it  as  a  trifle,  as 
a  diversion,  as  fun.  But  perhaps  it  was  wrong. 
Do  you  forgive  me?  I  have  grown  so  fond  of  you: 
it  would  hurt  me  if  you  did  not  forgive  me." 

"  Make  it  up  with  Gilio  and  stay  on." 

"  That's  impossible,  my  dear  girl.  Gilio  has  in- 
sulted me,  Gilio  drew  his  knife  against  Duco;  and 
those  are  two  things  which  I  can  never  forgive  him. 
So  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  remain." 

"  I  shall  be  so  lonely!  "  she  sobbed.  "  I  also  am 
so  fond  of  you,  I  am  fond  of  you  both.  Is  there  no 
way  out  of  it?  Bob  is  going  to-morrow  too.  I 
shall  be  all  alone.  And  I  have  nothing  here,  no- 
body who  is  fond  of  me.  .  .  ." 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  left,  Urania.  You  have 
an  object  in  life;  you  can  do  any  amount  of  good  in 

214 


THE  INEVITABLE  215 

your  surroundings.  You  are  interested  in  the  castle, 
which  is  now  your  own." 

"  It's  all  so  empty!  "  she  sobbed.  "  It  means  no- 
thing to  me.  I  need  affection.  Who  is  there  that 
is  fond  of  me?  I  have  tried  to  love  Gilio  and  I  do 
love  him,  but  he  doesn't  care  for  me.  Nobody  cares 
for  me." 

"  Your  poor  are  devoted  to  you.  You  have  a 
noble  aim  in  life." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  but  I  am  too  young  to  live  only 
for  an  aim.  And  I  have  nothing  else.  Nobody 
cares  for  me." 

"  Prince  Ercole,  surely?" 

"  No,  he  despises  me.  Listen.  I  told  you  once 
before  what  Gilio  said  .  .  .  that  there  were  no 
family-jewels,  that  they  were  all  sold:  you  remem- 
ber, don't  you?  Well,  there  are  family-jewels.  I 
gathered  that  from  something  the  Countess  di  Rosa- 
villa  said.  There  are  family-jewels.  But  Prince 
Ercole  keeps  them  in  the  Banco  di  Roma.  They  de- 
spise me;  and  I  am  not  thought  good  enough  to 
wear  them.  And  to  me  they  pretend  that  there  are 
none  left.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  all  their 
friends,  all  their  set  know  that  the  jewels  are  there, 
in  the  bank,  and  they  all  say  that  Prince  Ercole  is 
right.  My  money  is  good  enough  for  them,  but  I 
am  not  good  enough  for  their  old  jewels,  the  jewels 
of  their  grandmother!  " 

"  That's  a  shame !  "  said  Cornelie. 

"It's  the  truth!"  sobbed  Urania.  "Oh,  do 
make  it  up,  stay  a  little  longer,  for  my  sake !  .  .  ." 

"  Judge  for  yourself,  Urania :  we  really  can't." 

"  I  suppose  you're  right,"  she  admitted,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  It's  all  my  fault." 

"  No,  no,  Gilio  is  sometimes  so  impetuous  .  .  ." 

"  But  his  impetuousness,  his  anger,  his  jealousy 


I 

I 

216  THE  INEVITABLE 

are  my  fault.  I  am  sorry  about  it,  Urania,  because 
of  you.  Forgive  me.  Come  and  look  me  up  in 
Rome  when  you  go  back.  Don't  forget  me;  and 
write,  won't  you?  .  .  .  Now  I  must  go  and  pack 
my  trunk.  What  time  is  the  train?  " 

"  Ten  twenty-five,"  said  Duco.  "  We  shall  go 
together." 

"Can  I  say  good-bye  to  Prince  Ercole?  Send 
and  ask  if  he  can  see  me." 

;'What  shall  I  tell  him?" 

'  The  first  thing  that  comes  into  your  head:  that 
a  friend  of  mine  in  Rome  is  ill,  that  I  am  going  to 
look  after  her  and  that  Van  der  Staal  is  taking  me 
back  because  I  am  nervous  travelling.  I  don't  care 
what  Prince  Ercole  thinks." 

"  Cornelie  .  .  ." 

"  Darling,  I  really  haven't  another  moment. 
Kiss  me  and  forgive  me.  And  think  of  me  some- 
times. Good-bye.  We  have  had  a  delightful  time 
together  and  I  have  grown  very  fond  of  you." 

She  tore  herself  from  Urania's  embrace;  Duco 
also  said  good-bye.  They  left  the  princess  sobbing 
by  herself.  In  the  passage  they  met  Gilio. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked,  in  his  humble 
voice. 

"  We  are  going  by  the  ten  twenty-five." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry.   .  .   ." 

But  they  went  on  and  left  him  standing  there, 
while  Urania  sat  sobbing  in  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

/ 

In  the  train,  in  the  scorching  morning  heat,  they 
were  silent;  and  they  found  Rome  as  it  were  burst- 
ing out  of  its  houses  in  the  blazing  sunshine.  The 
studio,  however,  was  cool,  solitary  and  peaceful. 

"  Cornelie,"  said  Duco,  "  tell  me  what  happened 
between  you  and  the  prince.  Why  did  you  strike 
him?" 

She  pulled  him  down  on  the  sofa,  threw  herself 
on  his  neck  and  told  him  the  incident  of  the  camera 
degli  sposi.  She  told  him  of  the  thousand  lire  and 
the  bracelet.  She  explained  that  she  had  said  noth- 
ing about  it  before,  so  as  not  to  speak  to  him  of  finan- 
cial worries  while  he  was  finishing  his  water-colour 
for  the  exhibition  in  London: 

"  Duco,"  she  continued,  "  I  was  so  frightened 
when  I  saw  Gilio  draw  that  knife  yesterday.  I  felt 
as  if  I  was  going  to  faint,  but  I  didn't.  I  had  never 
seen  him  like  that,  so  violent,  so  ready  to  do  any- 
thing. ...  It  was  then  that  I  really  felt  how  much 
I  loved  you.  I  should  have  murdered  him  if  he  had 
wounded  you." 

u  You  ought  not  to  have  played  with  him,"  he 
said,  severely.  "  He  loves  you." 

But,  in  spite  of  his  stern  voice,  he  drew  her  closer 
to  him. 

Filled  with  a  certain  consciousness  of  guilt,  she 
laid  her  head  coaxingly  on  his  chest: 

"  He  is  only  a  little  in  love,"  she  said,  defending 
herself  feebly. 

"  He  is  very  passionately  in  love.  You  ought  not 
to  have  played  with  him." 

217 


218  THE  INEVITABLE 

She  made  no  further  reply,  merely  stroked  his 
face  with  her  hand.  She  liked  him  all  the  better 
for  reproaching  her  as  he  did;  she  loved  that  stern, 
earnest  voice,  which  he  hardly  ever  adopted  towards 
her.  She  knew  that  she  had  that  need  for  flirting 
in  her,  that  she  had  had  it  ever  since  she  was  a  very 
young  girl;  it  did  not  count  with  her,  it  was  only 
innocent  fun.  She  did  not  agree  with  Duco,  but 
thought  it  unnecessary  "?o  go  over  the  whole  ground: 
it  was  as  it  was,  she  didn't  think  about  it,  didn't 
dispute  it;  it  was  like  a  difference  of  opinion,  almost 
of  taste,  which  did  not  count.  She  was  lying  against 
him  too  comfortably,  after  the  excitement  of  last 
evening,  after  a  sleepless  night,  after  a  precipitate 
departure,  after  a  three  hours'  railway-journey  in 
the  blazing  heat,  to  argue  to  any  extent.  She  liked 
the  silent  coolness  of  the  studio,  the  sense  of  being 
alone  with  him,  after  her  three  weeks  at  San  Stef ano. 
There  was  a  peacefulness  here,  a  return  to  herself, 
which  filled  her  with  bliss.  The  tall  window  was 
open  and  the  warm  air  poured  in  beneficently  and 
was  tempered  by  the  natural  chilliness  of  the  north 
room.  Duco's  easel  stood  empty,  awaiting  him. 
This  was  their  home,  amid  all  that  colour  and  form 
of  art  which  surrounded  them.  She  now  under- 
stood that  colour  and  form;  she  was  learning  Rome. 
She  was  learning  it  all  in  dreams  of  happiness.  She 
gave  little  thought  to  the  woman  question  and 
hardly  glanced  at  the  notices  of  her  pamphlet,  ta- 
king but  a  scanty  interest  in  them.  She  admired 
Lippo's  angel,  admired  the  panel  of  Gentile  da 
Fabriano  and  the  resplendent  colours  of  the  old 
chasubles.  It  was  very  little,  after  the  treasures  at 
San  Stefano,  but  it  was  theirs  and  it  was  home.  She 
did  not  speak,  felt  happy  and  contented  resting  on 
Duco's  breast  and  passing  her  fingers  over  his  face. 

"  The  Banners   is   as  good   as   sold,"   he   said. 


THE  INEVITABLE  219 

"  For  ninety  pounds.  I  shall  telegraph  to  London 
to-day.  And  then  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  pay  the 
prince  back  that  thousand  lire." 

"  It's  Urania's  money,"  she  said,  feebly. 

"  But  I  won't  have  that  debt  hanging  on." 

She  felt  that  he  was  a  little  angry,  but  she  was 
in  no  mood  to  discuss  money  matters  and  she  was 
filled  with  a  blissful  languor  as  she  lay  on  his 
breast.  .  .  . 

"  Are  you  cross,  Duco?  " 

"  No  .  .  .  but  you  oughtn't  to  have  done  it." 

He  clasped  her  more  tightly,  to  make  her  feel 
that  he  did  not  want  to  grumble  at  her,  even  though 
he  thought  that  she  had  done  wrong.  She  thought 
that  she  had  done  right  not  to  mention  the  thousand 
lire  to  him,  but  she  did  not  defend  herself.  It 
meant  useless  words;  and  she  felt  too  happy  to  talk 
about  money. 

"  Cornelie,"  he  said,  "  let  us  get  married." 

She  looked  at  him  in  dismay,  startled  out  of  her 
blissfulness : 

"Why?" 

"  Not  because  of  ourselves.  We  are  just  as 
happy  unmarried.  But  because  of  the  world,  be- 
cause of  people." 

"  Because  of  the  world?     Because  of  people?  " 

'  Yes.  We  shall  be  feeling  more  and  more 
isolated.  I  discussed  it  once  or  twice  with  Urania. 
She  was  very  sorry  about  it,  but  she  sympathized 
with  us  and  wasn't  shocked.  She  thought  it  an  im- 
possible position.  Perhaps  she  is  right.  We  can't 
go  anywhere.  At  San  Stefano  they  still  acted  as 
though  they  did  not  know  that  we  were  living  to- 
gether; but  that  is  over  now." 

"  What  do  you  care  about  the  opinion  of  '  small, 
insignificant  people,  who  chance  to  cross  your  path,' 
as  you  yourself  say?  " 


220  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  It's  different  now.  We  owe  the  prince  money; 
and  Urania  is  the  only  friend  you  have." 

"  I  have  you:  I  don't  want  any  one  else." 

He  kissed  her: 

"  Really,  Cornelie,  it  is  better  that  we  should  get 
married.  Then  nobody  can  insult  you  again  as  the 
prince  dared  to  do." 

"He  has  narrow-minded  notions:  how  can  you 
want  to  get  married  for  the  sake  of  a  world  and 
people  like  San  Stefano  and  the  prince?" 

'  The  whole  world  is  like  that,  without  exception, 
and  we  are  in  the  world.  We  live  in  the  midst  of 
other  people.  It  is  impossible  to  isolate  one's  self 
entirely;  and  isolation  brings  its  own  punishment 
later.  We  have  to  attach  ourselves  to  other  people  : 
it  is  impossible  always  to  lead  your  own  existence, 
without  any  sense  of  community." 

"  Duco,  how  you've  changed !  These  are  the 
ideas  of  ordinary  society !  " 

"  I  have  been  reflecting  more  lately." 

"  I  am  just  learning  how  not  to  reflect.  .  .  .  My 
darling,  how  grave  you  are  this  morning!  And 
this  while  I'm  lying  up  against  you  so  deliciously,  to 
rest  after  all  that  excitement  and  the  hot  journey." 

"  Seriously,  Cornelie,  let  us  get  married." 

She  snuggled  against  him  a  little  nervously,  dis- 
pleased because  he  persisted  and  because  he  was 
forcibly  dissipating  her  blissful  mood: 

"  You're  a  horrid  boy.  Why  need  we  get  marr 
ried?  It  would  alter  nothing  in  our  position.  We 
still  shouldn't  trouble  about  other  people.  We  are 
living  so  delightfully  here,  living  for  your  art.  We 
want  nothing  more  than  each  other  and  your  art  and 
Rome.  I  am  so  very  fond  of  Rome  now;  I  am 
quite  altered.  There  is  something  here  that  is 
always  attracting  me  afresh.  At  San  Stefano  I  felt 
homesick  for  Rome  and  for  our  studio.  You  must 


THE  INEVITABLE  221 

choose  a  new  subject  .  .  .  and  get  to  work  again. 
When  you're  doing  nothing,  you  sit  thinking  — 
about  social  ethics  —  and  that  doesn't  suit  you  at 
all.  It  makes  you  so  different.  And  then  such 
petty,  conventional  ideas.  To  get  married !  Why, 
in  Heaven's  name,  should  we,  Duco?  You  know 
my  views  on  marriage.  I  have  had  experience :  it  is 
better  not." 

She  had  risen  and  was  mechanically  looking 
through  some  half-finished  sketches  in  a  portfolio. 

"  Your  experience,"  he  repeated.  "  We  know 
each  other  too  well  to  be  afraid  of  anything." 

She  took  the  sketches  from  the  portfolio :  they 
were  ideas  which  had  occurred  to  him  and  which  he 
had  jotted  down  while  he  was  working  at  The  Ban- 
ners. She  examined  them  and  scattered  them 
abroad: 

"Afraid?"  she  repeated,  vaguely.  "No,"  she 
suddenly  resumed,  more  firmly.  "  A  person  never 
knows  himself  or  another.  I  don't  know  you,  I 
don't  know  myself." 

Something  deep  down  within  herself  was  warn- 
ing her : 

"  Don't  marry,  don't  give  in.  It's  better  not,  it's 
better  not." 

It  was  barely  a  whisper,  a  shadow  of  premonition. 
She  had  not  thought  it  out;  it  was  unconscious  and 
mysterious  as  the  depths  of  her  soul.  For  she  was 
not  aware  of  it,  she  did  not  think  it,  she  hardly 
heard  it  within  herself.  It  flitted  through  her;  it 
was  not  a  feeling;  it  only  left  a  thwarting  reluctance 
in  her,  very  plainly.  Not  until  years  later  would 
she  understand  that  unwillingness. 

"  No,  Duco,  it  is  better  not." 

"  Think  it  over,  Cornelie." 

"It  is  better  not,"  she  repeated,  obstinately. 
"  Please,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more.  It  is 


222  THE  INEVITABLE 

better  not,  but  I  think  it  so  horrid  to  refuse  you, 
because  you  want  it.  I  never  refuse  you  anything, 
as  you  know.  I  would  do  anything  else  for  you. 
But  this  time  I  feel  ...  it  is  better  not!  " 

She  went  to  him,  all  one  caress,  and  kissed  him: 
"  Don't  ask  it  of  me  again.     What  a  cloud  on 
your  face !     I  can  see  that  you  mean  to  go  on  think- 
ing of  it." 

She  stroked  his  forehead  as  though  to  smooth 
away  the  wrinkles : 

"  Don't  think  of  it  any  more.  I  love  you,  I  love 
you !  I  want  nothing  but  you.  I  am  happy  as  we 
are.  Why  shouldn't  you  be  too?  Because  Gilio 
was  rude  and  Urania  prim?  .  .  .  Come  and  look 
at  your  sketches:  will  you  be  starting  work  soon? 
I  love  it  when  you're  working.  Then  I'll  write 
something  again :  a  chat  about  an  old  Italian  castle. 
My  recollections  of  San  Stefano.  Perhaps  a  short 
story,  with  the  pergola  for  a  background.  Oh,  that 
beautiful  pergola !  .  .  .  But  yesterday,  that  knife  I 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  Duco,  are  you  going  to  work  again? 
Let's  look  through  them  together.  What  a  lot  of 
ideas  you  had  at  that  time !  But  don't  become  too 
symbolical :  I  mean,  don't  get  into  habits,  into  tricks ; 
don't  repeat  yourself.  .  .  .  This  woman  here  is 
very  good.  She  is  walking  so  unconsciously  down 
that  shelving  line  .  .  .  and  all  those  hands  pushing 
around  her  .  .  .  and  those  red  flowers  in  the  abyss. 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  Duco,  what  had  you  in  your  mind?  " 
"  I  don't  know:  it  was  not  very  clear  to  myself." 
"I  think  "it  very  good,  but  I  don't  like  this 
sketch.  I  can't  say  why.  There's  something  dreary 
in  it.  I  think  the  woman  stupid.  I  don't  like  those 
shelving  lines :  I  like  lines  that  go  up,  as  in  The  Ban- 
ners. That  all  flowed  out  of  darkness  upwards, 
towards  the  sun !  How  beautiful  that  was !  What 
a  pity  that  we  no  longer  have  it,  that  it  is  being  sold! 


THE  INEVITABLE  223 

If  I  were  a  painter,  I  should  never  be  able  to  part 
with  anything.  I  shall  keep  the  sketches,  to  remind 
me  of  it.  Don't  you  think  it  dreadful,  that  we  no 
longer  have  it?  " 

He  agreed;  he  also  loved  and  missed  his  Banners. 
And  he  hunted  with  her  among  the  other  studies 
and  sketches.  But,  apart  from  the  unconscious 
woman,  there  was  nothing  that  was  clear  enough  to 
him  to  elaborate.  And  Cornelie  would  not  have 
him  finish  the  unconscious  woman:  no,  she  didn't 
like  those  shelving  lines.  .  .  .  But  after  that  he 
found  some  sketches  of  landscape-studies,  of  clouds 
and  skies  over  the  Campagna,  Venice  and  Na- 
ples. .  .  . 

And  he  set  to  work. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

They  were  very  economical;  they  had  a  little 
money;  and  all  through  the  scorching,  Roman  sum- 
mer the  months  passed  as  in  a  dream.  They  went 
on  living  their  lonely,  happy  life,  without  seeing  any 
one  except  Urania,  who  came  to  Rome  now  and 
again,  looked  them  up,  lunched  with  them  at  the 
studio  and  went  back  again  in  the  evening.  Then 
Urania  wrote  to  them  that  Gilio  could  stand  it  no 
longer  at  San  Stefano  and  that  they  were  going 
abroad,  first  to  Switzerland  and  then  to  Ostend. 
She  came  once  more  to  say  good-bye ;  and  after  that 
they  saw  nobody. 

In  the  old  days  Duco  had  known  an  artist  here 
and  there,  a  fellow-countryman  painting  in  Rome; 
now  he  knew  nobody,  saw  nobody.  And  their  life 
in  the  cool  studio  was  like  life  in  a  lonely  oasis  amid 
the  torrid  desert  of  Rome  in  August.  For  econo- 
my's sake,  they  did  not  go  into  the  mountains,  to 
a  cooler  spot.  They  spent  no  more  than  was  ab- 
solutely necessary;  and  none  the  less  this  bohemian 
poverty,  in  its  coloured  setting  of  triptych  and 
chasuble,  spelt  happiness. 

Money,  however,  remained  scarce.  Duco  sold  a 
water-colour  once  in  a  way,  but  at  times  they  had 
to  resort  to  the  sale  of  a  curio.  And  it  always  went 
to  Duco's  heart  to  part  with  anything  that  he  had 
collected.  They  had  few  needs,  but  the  time  would 
come  when  the  rent  of  the  studio  fell  due.  Cornelie 
sometimes  wrote  an  article  or  a  sketch  and  bought 
out  of  the  proceeds  what  she  needed  for  her  ward- 
robe. She  possessed  a  certain  knack  of  putting  on 

her  clothes,  a  talent  for  looking  smart  in  an  old, 

224 


THE  INEVITABLE  225 

worn  blouse.  She  was  fastidious  about  her  hair, 
her  skin,  her  teeth,  her  nails.  With  a  new  veil  she 
would  wear  an  old  hat,  with  an  old  walking-dress  a 
pair  of  fresh  gloves;  and  she  wore  everything  with 
a  certain  air  of  smartness.  At  home,  in  her  pink 
tea-gown,  which  had  lost  its  colour,  the  lines  of  her 
figure  were  so  charming  that  Duco  was  constantly 
sketching  her.  They  hardly  ever  went  to  a  res- 
taurant now.  Cornelie  cooked  something  at  home, 
invented  easy  recipes,  fetched  a  fiasco  of  wine  from 
the  nearest  olio  e  vino,  where  the  cab-drivers  sat 
drinking  at  little  tables;  and  they  dined  better  and 
more  cheaply  than  at  the  osteria.  And  Duco,  now 
that  he  no  longer  bought  things  from  the  dealer  in 
antiques  on  the  Tiber,  spent  nothing  at  all.  But 
money  remained  scarce.  Once,  when  they  had  sold 
a  silver  crucifix  for  far  less  than  it  was  worth, 
Cornelie  was  so  dejected  that  she  sobbed  on  Duco's 
breast.  He  consoled  her,  caressed  her  and  declared 
that  he  didn't  care  much  about  the  crucifix.  But 
she  knew  that  the  crucifix  was  a  very  fine  piece  of 
work  by  an  unknown  sixteenth-century  artist  and 
that  he  was  very  unhappy  at  losing  it.  And  she  said 
to  him  seriously  that  it  could  not  go  on  like  this,  that 
she  could  not  be  a  burden  to  him  and  that  they  had 
better  part;  that  she  would  look  about  for  something 
to  do,  that  she  would  go  back  to  Holland.  He  was 
alarmed  by  her  despair  and  said  that  it  was  not  ne- 
cessary, that  he  was  able  to  look  after  her  as  his 
wife,  but  that  unfortunately  he  was  such  an  un- 
practical fellow,  who  could  do  nothing  but  splash 
about  a  bit  with  water-colours  and  even  that  not 
well  enough  to  live  on.  But  she  said  that  he  must 
not  talk  like  that;  he  was  a  great  artist.  It  was 
just  that  he  did  not  possess  a  facile,  money-making 
fertility,  but  he  ranked  all  the  higher  on  that  ac- 
count. She  said  that  she  would  not  live  on  his 


226  THE  INEVITABLE 

money,  that  she  wanted  to  keep  herself.  And  she 
collected  the  scattered  remnants  of  her  feminist 
ideas.  Once  again  he  begged  her  to  consent  to  their 
marriage;  they  would  become  reconciled  with  his 
mother;  and  Mrs.  van  der  Staal  would  give  him 
what  she  used  to  give  him  when  he  used  to  live  with 
her  at  Belloni's.  But  she  refused  to  hear  either  of 
marriage  or  of  an  allowance  from  his  mother,  even 
as  he  refused  to  take  money  from  Urania.  How 
often  had  Urania  not  offered  to  help  them  I  He 
had  never  consented;  he  was  even  angry  when 
Urania  had  given  Cornelie  a  blouse  which  Cornelie1 
accepted  with  a  kiss. 

No,  it  couldn't  go  on  like  this:  they  had  better 
part;  she  must  go  back  to  Holland  and  seek  em- 
ployment. It  was  easier  in  Holland  than  abroad. 
But  he  was  so  desperate,  because  of  their  happiness, 
which  tottered  before  his  eyes,  that  he  held  her 
tightly  pressed  to  his  breast;  and  she  sobbed,  with 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  Why  should  they  part, 
he  asked.  They  would  be  stronger  together.  He 
could  no  longer  do  without  her;  his  life,  if  she  left 
him,  would  be  no  life.  He  used  to  live  in  his 
dreams;  he  now  lived  in  the  reality  of  their  happi- 
ness. 

And  things  remained  as  they  were :  they  could  not 
alter  anything;  they  lived  as  thriftily  as  possible,  in 
order  to  keep  together.  He  finished  his  landscapes 
and  always  sold  them;  but  he  sold  them  at  once, 
much  too  cheaply,  so  as  not  to  have  to  wait  for  the 
money.  But  then  poverty  threatened  once  more; 
and  she  thought  of  writing  to  Holland.  As  it  hap- 
pened, however,  she  received  a  letter  from  her 
mother,  followed  by  one  from  one  of  her  sisters. 
And  they  asked  her  in  those  letters  if  it  was  true, 
what  people  were  saying  at  the  Hague,  that  she  was 
living  with  Van  der  Staal.  She  had  always  looked 


THE  INEVITABLE  227 

upon  herself  as  so  far  from  the  Hague  and  from 
Hague  people  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that 
her  way  of  life  might  become  known.  She  met  no- 
body, she  knew  nobody  with  Dutch  connections. 
Anyhow,  her  independent  attitude  was  now  known. 
And  she  answered  the  letters  in  a  feminist  tone, 
declared  her  dislike  of  marriage  and  admitted  that 
she  was  living  with  Van  der  Staal.  She  wrote 
coldly  and  succinctly,  so  as  to  give  those  people  at 
the  Hague  the  impression  that  she  was  a  free  and 
independent  woman.  They  knew  her  pamphlet 
there,  of  course.  But  she  understood  that  she 
could  now  no  longer  think  of  Holland.  She  gave 
up  her  family  as  hopeless.  Still  it  tore  something 
in  her,  the  unconscious  family-tie.  But  that  tie  was 
already  greatly  loosened,  through  lack  of  sympathy, 
especially  at  the  time  of  her  divorce.  And  she  felt 
all  alone :  she  had  only  her  happiness,  her  lover, 
Duco.  Oh,  it  was  enough,  it  was  enough  for  all  her 
life !  If  only  she  could  make  a  little  money !  But 
how?  She  went  to  the  Dutch  consul,  asked  his 
advice ;  the  visit  led  to  nothing.  She  was  not  suited 
for  a  nurse:  she  wanted  to  earn  money  at  once  and 
had  no  time  for  training.  She  could  serve  in  a 
shop,  of  course.  And  she  applied,  without  saying 
anything  to  Duco;  but,  notwithstanding  her  worn, 
cloak,  they  thought  her  too  much  of  a  lady  wherever 
she  went  and  she  thought  the  salary  too  small  for 
a  whole  day's  work.  And,  when  she  felt  that  she 
hadn't  it  in  her  blood  to  work  for  her  bread,  despite 
all  her  ideas  and  all  her  logic,  despite  her  pamphlet 
and  her  independent  womanhood,  she  felt  helpless 
to  the  point  of  despair  and,  as  she  went  home, 
weary,  exhausted  by  climbing  many  stairs  and  by 
useless  conversations  and  appeals,  the  old  plaint  rose 
to  her  lips: 

"  O  God,  tell  me  what  to  do !  " 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

She  wrote  regularly  to  Urania,  in  Switzerland,  at 
Ostend;  and  Urania  always  wrote  back  very  kindly 
and  offered  her  assistance.  But  Cornelie  always 
declined,  afraid  of  hurting  Duco.  She,  for  herself, 
felt  no  such  scruples,  especially  now  that  it  was 
being  borne  in  upon  her  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  work.  But  she  understood  those  scruples  in 
Duco  and  respected  them.  For  her  own  part,  how- 
ever, she  would  have  accepted  help,  now  that  her 
pride  was  wavering,  now  that  her  ideas  were  falling 
to  pieces,  too  weak  to  withstand  the  steady  pressure 
of  life's  hardships.  It  was  like  a  great  finger  that 
just  passed  along  a  house  of  cards :  though  built  up 
with  care  and  pride,  everything  fell  flat  at  the  least 
touch.  The  only  things  that  stood  firm  and  un- 
shakable amid  the  ruins  were  her  love  and  her  hap- 
piness. Oh,  how  she  loved  him,  how  simple  was 
their  happiness !  How  dear  he  was  to  her  for  his 
gentleness,  his  calmness,  his  lack  of  irritability,  as 
though  his  nerves  were  strung  only  to  the  finer  sensi- 
bilities of  the  artist.  She  felt  so  deliciously  that  it 
was  all  imperturbable,  that  it  was  all  settled  for 
good.  Without  that  happiness  they  could  never 
have  dragged  their  difficult  life  along  from  day  to 
day.  Now  she  did  not  feel  that  burden  every  day, 
as  though  they  were  dragging  the  load  along  from 
one  day  to  the  next.  She  now  felt  it  only  some- 
times, when  the  future  was  quite  dark  and  they  did 
not  know  whither  they  were  dragging  the  burden 
of  their  lives,  in  the  dusk  of  that  future.  But  they 
always  triumphed  again:  they  loved  each  other  too 

228 


THE  INEVITABLE  229 

well  to  sink  under  the  load.  They  always  found  a 
little  more  courage;  smiling,  they  supported  each 
other's  strength. 

September  came  and  October;  and  Urania  wrote 
that  they  were  coming  back  to  San  Stefano,  to  spend 
a  couple  of  months  there  before  going  for  the  winter 
to  Nice.  And  one  morning  Urania  arrived  unex- 
pectedly in  the  studio.  She  found  Cornelie  alone: 
Duco  had  gone  to  an  art-dealer's.  They  exchanged 
affectionate  greetings : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again !  "  Urania  prat- 
tled, gaily.  "  I  am  glad  to  be  back  in  Italy  and  to 
put  in  a  little  more  time  at  San  Stefano.  And  is 
everything  as  it  used  to  be,  in  your  cosy  studio? 
Are  you  happy?  Oh,  I  need  not  ask!  " 

And  she  hugged  and  kissed  Cornelie,  like  a  child, 
still  lacking  the  strength  of  mind  to  condemn  her 
friend's  too  free  existence,  especially  now,  after  her 
own  summer  at  Ostend.  They  sat  beside  each  other 
on  the  couch,  Cornelie  in  her  old  tea-gown,  which 
she  wore  with  her  own  peculiar  grace,  and  the  young 
princess  in  her  pale-grey  tailor-made,  which  clung  to 
her  figure  in  a  very  up-to-date  manner  and  rustled 
with  heavy  silk  lining,  and  a  hat  with  black  feathers 
and  silver  spangles.  Her  jewelled  fingers  toyed 
with  a  very  long  watch-chain  which  she  wore  round 
her  neck:  the  latest  freak  of  fashion.  Cornelie  was 
able  to  admire  without  feeling  envious  and  made 
Urania  stand  up  and  turn  round  in  front  of  her, 
approved  of  the  cut  of  her  skirt,  said  that  the  hat 
looked  sweet  on  her  and  examined  the  watch-chain 
attentively.  And  she  plunged  into  these  matters  of 
chifons:  Urania  described  the  dresses  at  Ostend; 
Urania  admired  Cornelie's  old  tea-gown;  Cornelie 
smiled: 

"Especially  after  Ostend,  eh?"  she  laughed, 
merrily. 


230  THE  INEVITABLE 

But  Urania  meant  it  seriously:  Cornelie  wore  it 
with  such  chic!  And,  changing  the  topic,  she  said 
that  she  wanted  to  speak  very  seriously,  that  per- 
haps she  knew  of  something  for  Cornelie,  now  that 
Cornelie  would  never  accept  her,  Urania's,  assist- 
ance. At  Ostend  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
an  old  American  lady,  Mrs.  Uxeley,  a  regular  type. 
She  was  ninety  years  of  age  and  lived  at  Nice  in  the 
winter.  She  was  fabulously  rich:  an  oil-queen's 
fortune.  She  was  ninety,  but  still  behaved  as  if  she 
were  forty-five.  She  dined  out,  went  into  society, 
flirted.  People  laughed  at  her  but  accepted  her  be- 
cause of  her  money  and  her  splendid  entertainments. 
All  the  cosmopolitan  colony  visited  her  at  Nice. 
Urania  produced  an  Ostend  casino-paper  and  read 
but  a  journalistic  account  of  a  ball  at  -Ostend,  in 
which  Mrs.  Uxeley  was  called  la  femme  la  plus 
elegante  d'Ostende.  The  journalist  had  been  paid 
so  much  for  it;  everybody  laughed  and  was  amused 
by  it.  Mrs.  Uxeley  was  a  caricature,  but  with 
enough  tact  to  get  herself  taken  seriously.  Well, 
Mrs.  Uxeley  was  looking  for  somebody.  She  always 
had  a  lady  companion  with  her,  a  girl,  a  young 
woman;  and  already  numberless  ladies  had  suc- 
ceeded one  another  in  her  employ.  She  had  had 
cousins  living  with  her,  distant  cousins,  very  di- 
stant cousins  and  total  strangers.  She  was  tire- 
some, capricious,  impossible;  everybody  knew  that. 
Would  Cornelie  care  to  try  it?  Urania  had  already 
discussed  it  with  Mrs.  Uxeley  and  recommended  her 
friend.  Cornelie  did  not  feel  greatly  attracted,  but 
thought  it  worth  thinking  over.  Mrs.  Uxeley's  com- 
panion was  staying  on  till  November,  when  the  old 
thing  went  back  through  Paris  to  Nice.  And  at 
Nice  they  would  see  so  much  of  each  other,  Cornelie 
and  Urania.  But  Cornelie  thought  it  terrible  to 
leave  Duco.  She  did  not  think  that  it  would  ever 


THE  INEVITABLE  231 

work.  They  were  so  attached  to  each  other,  so 
used  to  each  other.  From  the  money  point  of  view 
it  would  be  excellent  —  an  easy  life  which  attracted 
her,  after  that  blow  to  her  moral  pride  —  but  she 
could  not  think  of  leaving  Duco.  And  what  would 
Duco  do  at  Nice!  No,  she  couldn't,  she  simply 
couldn't:  she  must  stay  with  him.  .  .  .  She  felt  a 
reluctance  to  go,  like  a  hand  that  withheld  her.  She 
told  Urania  to  put  the  old  lady  off,  to  let  her  look 
out  for  somebody  else.  She  could  not  do  it.  What 
use  to  her  was  such  a  life  —  socially  dependent, 
though  financially  independent  —  without  Duco? 

And,  when  Urania  was  gone  —  she  was  going  on 
to  San  Stefano  —  Cornelie  was  glad  that  she  had  at 
once  declined  that  stupid,  easy  life  of  dependence  as 
companion  to  a  rich  old  dotard.  She  glanced  round 
the  studio.  She  loved  it  with  its  precious  colours, 
its  noble  antiques  and,  behind  that  curtain,  her  bed, 
behind  that  screen,  her  oil-stove,  making  the  space 
look  like  a  little  kitchen;  with  the  Bohemianism  of 
its  precious  bibelots  and  very  primitive  comforts,  it 
had  become  indispensable  to  her,  had  become  her 
home.  And,  when  Duco  came  in,  she  kissed  him  and 
told  him  about  Urania  and  Mrs.  Uxeley.  She  was 
glad  to  be  able  to  nestle  in  his  arms.  He  had  sold 
a  couple  of  water-colours.  There  was  no  reason 
whatever  to  leave  him.  He  didn't  wish  it  either,  he 
never  would  wish  it.  And  they  held  each  other 
tightly  embraced,  as  though  they  were  conscious  of 
something  that  would  be  able  to  part  them,  an  in- 
eluctable necessity,  as  if  hands  hovered  around  them 
pushing  them,  guiding  them,  opposing  and  inhibiting 
them,  a  contest  of  hands,  like  a  cloud  around  them 
both:  hands  that  strove  by  main  force  to  sunder 
their  radiant  path  of  life,  their  coalescent  line  of 
life,  as  if  it  were  too  narrow  for  the  feet  of  the 
two  of  them  and  the  hands  were  trying  to  wrench  it 


232  THE  INEVITABLE 

asunder,  in  order  to  let  the  broad  track  wind  apart 
in  two  curves.  They  said  nothing:  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms,  they  gazed  at  life,  shuddered  at  the 
hands,  felt  the  approaching  constraint  which  already 
was  clouding  more  closely  around  them.  But  they 
felt  warm  in  each  other's  company;  they  locked  up 
their  little  happiness  tightly  in  their  embrace  and 
hid  it  between  them,  so  that  the  hands  might  not 
point  to  it,  touch  it  and  thrust  it  aside.  .  .  . 

And  under  their  fixed  gaze  life  softly  receded, 
the  cloud  dispersed,  the  hands  faded  away  and  dis- 
appeared and  their  breasts  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief, 
while  she  still  remained  lying  against  him  and  closed 
her  eyes,  as  though  in  sleep.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

But  the  life  of  constraint  returned,  the  hovering 
hands  reappeared,  like  a  gentle  mysterious  force. 
Cornelie  wept  bitterly  and  admitted  to  herself  and 
admitted  to  Duco:  it  could  not  go  on  any  longer. 
At  one  moment  they  had  not  enough  to  pay  the  rent 
of  the  studio  and  had  to  apply  to  Urania.  Gaps 
showed  in  the  studio,  colours  vanished,  owing  to  the 
sale  of  things  which  Duco  had  collected  with  love 
and  sacrifice.  But  Lippo  Memmi's  angel,  whom  he 
refused  to  sell,  still  shone  as  of  old,  still  holding 
forth  the  lily,  in  his  gown  of  gold  brocade.  Around 
him  on  every  side  yawned  melancholy  spaces,  with 
bare  nails  showing  in  the  walls.  At  first  they  tried 
to  hang  other  things  in  the  place  of  those  which  had 
gone;  but  they  soon  lost  the  inclination.  And,  as 
they  sat  side  by  side,  in  each  other's  arms,  conscious 
of  their  little  happiness,  but  also  of  the  constraint 
of  life  with  its  pushing  hands,  they  closed  their  eyes, 
that  they  might  no  longer  see  the  studio  which 
seemed  to  be  crumbling  about  them,  while  in  the 
first  cooler  days  a  sunless  chill  descended  shivering ' 
from  the  ceiling,  which  seemed  higher  and  farther 
away.  The  easel  stood  waiting,  empty.  And  they 
both  closed  their  eyes  and  thus  remained,  feeling 
that,  despite  the  strength  of  their  happiness  and 
their  love,  they  were  gradually  conquered  by  life, 
which  persisted  in  its  tyranny  and  day  by  day  took 
something  from  them.  Once,  while  they  were  sit- 
ting thus,  their  arms  relaxed  and  their  embrace  fell 
away,  as  though  hands  were  drawing  them  apart. 

233 


234  THE  INEVITABLE 

They  remained  sitting  for  a  long  time,  side  by  side, 
without  touching  each  other.  Then  she  sobbed 
aloud  and  flung  herself  with  her  face  on  his  knees. 
There  was  no  more  to  be  done :  life  was  too  strong 
for  them,  speechless  life,  the  life  of  the  soft,  persist- 
ent constraint,  which  surrounded  them  with  so  many 
hands.  Their  little  happiness  seemed  to  be  esca- 
ping them,  like  an  angelic  child  that  was  dying  and 
sinking  out  of  their  embrace. 

She  said  that  she  would  write  to  Urania:  the 
Forte-Braccios  were  at  Nice.  He  listlessly  assented. 
And,  as  soon  as  she  received  a  reply,  she  mechan- 
ically packed  her  trunk,  packed  up  her  old  clothes. 
For  Urania  wrote  and  told  her  to  C9me,  said  that 
Mrs.  Uxeley  wanted  to  see  her.  Mrs.  Uxeley  sent 
her  the  money  for  her  journey.  She  was  in  a  de- 
sperate state  of  constant  nervous  sobbing  and  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  being  torn  from  him,  torn  from 
that  home  which  was  dear  to  her  and  which  was 
crumbling  about  her,  all  through  her  fault.  When 
she  received  the  registered  letter  with  the  money, 
she  had  a  nervous  attack,  complaining  to  him  like  a 
child  that  she  couldn't  leave  him,  that  she  wouldn't 
leave  him,  that  she  could  not  live  without  him,  that 
she  loved  him  for  ever,  for  ever,  that  she  would  die, 
so  far  away  from  him.  She  lay  on  the  sofa,  her 
arms  stiff,  her  legs  stiff,  crying  out  with  a  mouth 
distorted  as  though  by  physical  pain.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  soothed  her,  bathed  her  forehead, 
gave  her  ether  to  drink,  comforted  her,  said  that 
everything  would  be  all  right  again  later.  .  .  . 
Later  ?  She  looked  at  him  vacantly.  She  was  half 
mad  with  grief.  She  tossed  everything  out  of  the 
trunk  again,  all  about  the  room  —  underclothing, 
blouses  —  and  laughed  and  laughed.  He  conjured 
her  to  control  herself.  When  she  saw  his  fright- 
ened face,  when  he  too  began  to  sob  on  her  breast, 


THE  INEVITABLE  235 

«he  drew  him  tightly  to  her,  kissed  him  and  com- 
forted him  in  her  turn.  And  everything  in  her  be- 
came dulness  and  lethargy.  Together  they  packed 
the  trunk  again.  Then  she  .looked  round  and,  in  a 
gust  of  energy,  arranged  the  studio  for  him,  had  her 
bed  taken  away,  pinned  his  own  sketches  to  the  walls, 
tried  to  build  up  something  of  what  had  gone  to 
pieces  around  them,  rearranged  everything,  did  her 
best.  She  cooked  their  last  meal;  she  made  up  the 
fire.  But  a  desperate  threat  of  loneliness  and  deser- 
tion reigned  over  everything.  It  was  all  wrong,  it 
was  all  wrong.  .  .  .  Sobbing,  they  fell  asleep,  in 
each  other's  arms,  close  against  each  other. 

Next  morning  he  took  her  to  the  station.  And, 
when  she  had  stepped  into  her  compartment,  they 
both  of  them  lost  all  their  self-control.  They  em- 
braced each  other  sobbing,  while  the  guard  was 
waiting  to  lock  the  door.  And  she  saw  Duco  run 
away  like  a  madman,  pushing  his  way  through  the 
crowd;  and,  broken  with  misery,  she  threw  herself 
back  in  her  seat.  She  was  so  ill  and  distressed,  so 
near  to  fainting,  that  a  lady  beside  her  came  to  her 
aid  and  bathed  her  face  in  eau-de-Cologne.  .  .  . 

She  thanked  the  lady,  apologized  for  the  trouble 
she  had  given  and,  seeing  the  other  passengers  star- 
ing at  her  with  compassionate  eyes,  she  mastered 
herself,  sat  huddled  in  her  corner  and  gazed  va- 
cantly through  the  window.  She  went  on,  stopping 
nowhere,  only  alighting  to  change  trains.  Though 
hungry,  she  had  not  the  energy  to  order  food  at  the 
stations.  She  ate  nothing  and  drank  nothing.  She 
travelled  a  day  and  a  night  and  arrived  at  Nice  late 
the  following  evening.  Urania  was  at  the  station 
and  was  startled  to  see  Cornelie  look  grey  and 
sallow,  dead-tired,  with  hollow  eyes.  And  she  was 
most  charming:  she  took  Cornelie  home  with  her, 
looked  after  her  for  some  days,  made  her  stay  in 


236  THE  INEVITABLE 

bed  and  went  herself  to  tell  Mrs.  Uxeley  that  her 
friend  was  too  unwell  to  report  herself.  Gilio  came 
for  a  moment  to  pay  Cornelie  his  respects;  and  she 
could  not  do  other  than  thank  him  for  these  days 
of  hospitality  and  care  under  his  roof.  And  the 
young  princess  was  like  a  sister,  was  like  a  mother 
and  fed  Cornelie  up  with  milk  and  eggs  and 
strengthening  medicines.  Cornelie  let  her  do  as  she 
liked,  remained  limp  and  indifferent  and  ate  to  please 
Urania.  After  a  few  days,  Urania  said  that  Mrs. 
Uxeley  was  coming  to  call  that  afternoon,  being  anx- 
ious to  see  her  new  companion.  Mrs.  Uxeley  was 
alone  now,  but  could  wait  until  Cornelie's  recovery. 
Cornelie  dressed  herself  as  well  as  she  could  and 
with  Urania  awaited  the  old  lady's  arrival.  She 
entered  gushingly,  with  a  torrent  of  words;  and, 
in  the  dim  light  of  Urania's  drawing-room,  Cornelie 
was  unable  to  realize  that  she  was  ninety  years 
old.  Urania  winked  at  Cornelie,  who  only  smiled 
faintly  in  return:  she  was  afraid  of  this  first  inter- 
view. But  Mrs.  Uxeley,  no  doubt  because  Cornelie 
was  a  friend  of  the  Princess  di  Forte-Braccio,  was 
very  easy-mannered,  very  pleasant  and  free  of  all 
condescension  towards  her  future  companion;  she 
enquired  after  Cornelie's  health  in  a  wearisome  pro- 
fusion of  little  exclamations  and  sentences  and  bits 
of  advice.  Cornelie,  in  the  twilight  of  the  lace- 
shaded  standard-lamps,  took  her  in  with  a  glance 
and  saw  a  woman  of  fifty,  with  the  little  wrinkles 
carefully  powdered  over,  in  a  mauve-velvet  gown 
embroidered  with  dull  gold  and  spangles  and  beads. 
On  the  brown,  waved  chignon  was  a  hat  with  a 
white  aigrette.  Her  jewels  kept  on  sparkling,  be- 
cause she  was  very  fussy,  very  restless  in  her  move- 
ments. She  now  took  Cornelie's  hands  and  began 
to  talk  more  confidentially.  So  Cornelie  would 
come  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Very  well.  She 


THE  INEVITABLE  237 

was  accustomed  to  pay  a  hundred  dollars  a  month, 
or  five  hundred  francs,  never  less,  but  also  never 
more.  But  she  could  understand  that  Cornelie 
would  want  something  now,  for  new  clothes :  would 
she  order  what  she  wanted  at  this  address  and  have 
it  put  down  to  Mrs.  Uxeley's  account?  A  couple  of 
ball-dresses,  two  or  three  less  dressy  evening-frocks, 
in  short,  everything.  The  Princess  Urania  would 
tell  her  all  about  it  and  would  go  with  her.  And 
she  rose,  affecting  the  young  woman,  simpering 
through  her  long-handled  lorgnette,  but  meanwhile 
leaning  hard  on  her  sunshade,  working  herself  with 
a  muscular  effort  along  the  stick  of  her  sunshade, 
with  a  sudden  twitch  of  rheumatism  which  unco- 
vered all  sorts  of  wrinkles.  Urania  saw  her  to  the 
hall  and  came  back  shrieking  with  laughter;  and 
Cornelie  also  laughed,  but  only  listlessly.  She  really 
didn't  care:  she  was  more  amazed  at  Mrs.  Uxeley 
than  amused.  Ninety  years  old!  What  an  energy, 
worthy  of  a  better  object,  to  remain  elegant:  la 
femme  la  plus  elegante  d'Ostende! 

Ninety  years  old !  How  the  woman  must  suffer, 
during  the  hours  of  her  long  toilet,  while  she  was 
being  made  up  into  that  caricature !  Urania  said 
that  it  was  all  false :  the  hair,  the  bust.  And  Cor- 
nelie felt  a  loathing  at  having  to  live  for  the  future 
beside  this  woman,  as  though  beside  an  ignominy. 
In  the  happiness  of  her  love,  a  great  part  of  her 
energy  had  become  relaxed,  as  though  their  dual 
happiness  —  Duco's  and  hers  —  had  unfitted  her 
for  any  further  struggle  for  life  and  diminished  her 
zest  for  life;  but  it  had  refined  and  purified  some- 
thing in  her  soul  and  she  loathed  the  sight  of  so 
much  show  for  so  vain  and  petty  an  object.  And 
it  was  only  necessity  itself  —  the  inevitability  of  the 
things  of  life,  which  urged  and  pushed  her  with  a 
guiding  finger  along  a  line  of  life  now  winding  soli- 


238  THE  INEVITABLE 

tary  before  her  —  that  gave  her  the  strength  to  hide 
within  herself  her  sorrow,  her  longing,  her  nostalgia 
for  everything  that  she  had  left  behind.  She  did 
not  talk  about  it  to  Urania.  Urania  was  so  glad 
to  see  her,  looked  upon  her  as  a  good  friend,  in  the 
loneliness  of  her  stately  life,  in  her  isolation  among 
her  aristocratic  acquaintances.  Urania  accompanied 
her  enthusiastically  to  dressmakers'  establishments 
and  shops  and  helped  her  to  choose  her  new  outfit. 
She  did  not  care  about  it  all.  She,  an  elegant 
woman,  a  woman  of  innate  elegance,  who  in  her  out- 
ward appearance  had  always  fought  against  poverty 
and  who,  in  the  days  of  her  happiness,  was  able, 
with  the  aid  of  a  fresh  ribbon,  to  wear  an  old  blouse 
gracefully,  was  utterly  indifferent  to  everything  that 
she  was  now  buying  on  Mrs.  Uxeley's  account.  To 
her  it  was  as  though  these  things  were  not  for  her. 
She  let  Urania  ask  and  choose;  she  approved  of 
everything.  She  allowed  herself  to  be  fitted  as 
though  she  had  been  a  doll.  She  greatly  disliked 
having  to  spend  money  at  a  stranger's  expense.  She 
felt  lowered  and  humiliated:  all  her  haughty  pride 
of  life  was  gone.  She  was  afraid  of  what  they 
would  say  of  her  in  the  circle  of  Mrs.  Uxeley's 
friends,  afraid  lest  they  knew  of  her  independent 
ideas,  of  her  cohabitation  with  Duco,  afraid  of  Mrs. 
Uxeley's  opinion.  For  Urania  had  had  to  be  hon- 
est and  tell  everything.  It  was  only  on  Urania's 
eager  recommendation  that  she  had  been  taken  by 
Mrs.  Uxeley.  She  felt  out  of  place,  now  that  she 
would  once  more  dare  to  play  her  part  among  all 
those  people;  and  she  was  afraid  of  giving  herself 
away.  She  would  have  to  make-believe,  to  conceal 
her  ideas,  to  pick  her  words ;  and  she  was  no  longer 
accustomed  to  doing  so.  And  all  for  that  money. 
All  because  she  had  not  had  the  energy,  living  with 
Duco,  to  earn  her  own  bread  and,  gaily,  independ- 


THE  INEVITABLE  239 

ently,  to  cheer  him  in  his  work,  in  his  art.  Oh,  if 
she  could  only  have  managed  to  do  that,  how  happy 
she  would  have  been!  If  only  she  had  not  allowed 
the  wretched  languor  that  was  in  her  blood  to  in- 
crease within  her  like  a  morbid  growth :  the  languor 
of  her  upbringing,  her  superficial,  showy,  drawing- 
room  education,  which  had  unfitted  her  for  every- 
thing whatsoever !  By  temperament  she  was  a  crea- 
ture of  love  as  well  as  a  woman  of  sensuousness  and 
luxury,  but  there  was  more  of  love  in  her  than  of 
luxury:  she  would  be  happy  under  the  simplest  con- 
ditions if  only  she  was  able  to  love.  And  now  life 
had  torn  her  away  from  him,  gradually  but  inex- 
orably. And  now  her  sensuous,  luxurious  nature 
was  gratified,  but  in  dependence;  yet  it  no  longer 
satisfied  her  cravings,  because  she  could  not  satisfy 
her  soul.  In  that  lonely  soul  a  miserable  dissatis- 
faction sprang  up  like  a  riotous  growth.  Her  only 
happiness  was  his  letters,  letters  of  longing  but  also 
letters  of  comfort.  He  wrote  expressing  his  long- 
ing, but  he  also  wrote  enjoining  courage  and  hope. 
He  wrote  to  her  every  day.  He  was  now  at  Flo- 
rence, seeking  his  consolation  in  the  Uffizi,  in  the  Pitti 
Palace.  He  had  found  it  impossible  to  stay  in 
Rome ;  the  studio  was  now  locked  up.  At  Florence 
he  was  a  little  nearer  to  her.  And  his  letters  were 
to  her  a  love-story,  the  only  novel  that  she  read; 
and  it  was  as  though  she  saw  his  landscapes  in  his 
style,  the  same  dim  blending  of  colour  and  emotion, 
the  pearly  white,  misty,  dreamy  distances  filled  with 
light,  the  horizon  of  his  longing,  as  though  his  eyes 
were  ever  gazing  at  the  vista  in  which  she,  on  the 
night  of  departure,  had  vanished  as  in  a  mauve- 
grey  sunset,  a  sky  of  the  dreary  Campagna.  In 
those  letters  they  still  lived  together.  But  she  could 
not  write  to  him  in  this  strain.  Though  she  wrote 
to  him  daily,  she  wrote  briefly,  telling  him  ever  the 


24o  THE  INEVITABLE 

same  things  in  other  words :  her  longing,  her  weary 
indifference.  But  she  wrote  of  the  happiness  which 
she  derived  from  his  letters,  which  were  her  daily 
bread. 

She  was  now  with  Mrs.  Uxeley  and  occupied  in 
the  gigantic  villa  two  charming  rooms  overlooking 
the  sea  and  the  Promenade  des  Anglais.  Urania 
had  helped  her  to  arrange  them.  And  she  lived 
in  an  unreal  dream  of  strangeness,  of  noncexistence 
alone  with  her  soul,  of  unlived  actions  and  gestures, 
performed  according  to  the  will  of  others.  In  the 
mornings  she  went  to  Mrs.  Uxeley  in  her  boudoir 
and  read  her  the  French  and  American  papers  and 
sometimes  a  few  pages  of  a  French  novel.  She 
humbly  did  her  best.  Mrs.  Uxeley  thought  that 
she  read  very  nicely,  only  she  said  that  Cornelie 
must  cheer  up  a  bit,  that  her  melancholy  days  were 
over  now.  Duco  was  never  mentioned  and  Mrs. 
Uxeley  behaved  as  though  she  knew  nothing.  The 
great  boudoir  looked  through  the  open  balcony- 
windows  over  the  sea,  where,  on  the  Promenade,  the 
morning  stroll  was  already  beginning,  with  the  gaudy 
colours  of  the  parasols  striking  a  shrill  note  against 
the  deep-blue  sea,  an  expensive  sea,  a  costly  tide, 
waves  that  seemed  to  exact  a  mint  of  money  before 
they  would  consent  to  roll  up  prettily.  The  old 
lady,  already  painted,  bedizened  and  bewigged, 
with  a  white-lace  wrap  over  her  wig  against  the 
draught,  lay  in  the  black  and  white  lace  of  her 
white-silk  tea-gown  on  the  piled-up  cushions  of  her 
sofa.  In  her  wrinkled  hand  she  held  the  lorgnette, 
with  her  initials  in  diamonds,  through  which  it 
amused  her  to  peer  at  the  shrill  patches  of  the 
parasols  outside.  Now  and  then,  when  her  rheum- 
atism gave  a  twinge,  she  suddenly  distorted  her 
face  into  one  great  crease  of  wrinkles,  under  which 
the  smooth  enamel  of  her  make-up  almost  cracked, 


THE  INEVITABLE  241 

like  crackle-china.  In  the  daylight  she  seemed 
hardly  alive,  looked  like  an  automatic,  jointed,  stiff- 
limbed  doll,  which  spoke  and  moved  mechanically. 
She  was  always  a  trifle  tired  in  the  mornings,  from 
never  sleeping  at  night;  after  eleven  she  took  a  little 
nap.  She  observed  a  strict  regime;  and  her  doctor, 
who  called  daily,  seemed  to  revive  her  a  little  every 
day,  to  enable  her  to  hold  out  until  the  evening. 
In  the  afternoon  she  drove  out,  alighted  at  the 
Jetee,  paid  her  visits.  But  in  the  evening  she  re- 
vived with  a  trace  of  real  life,  dressed,  put  on  her 
jewels  and  recovered  her  exuberance,  her  little  ex- 
clamations and  simpers.  Then  came  the  dances, 
the  parties,  the  theatre.  Then  she  was  no  more 
than  fifty. 

But  these  were  her  good  days.  Sometimes,  after 
a  night  of  insufferable  pain,  she  remained  in  her 
bedroom,  with  yesterday's  enamelling  untouched,  her 
bald  head  wrapped  in  black  lace,  a  black-satin  bed- 
jacket  hanging  loosely  around  her  like  a  sack;  and 
she  moaned  and  cried  and  shrieked  and  seemed  to 
be  begging  for  release  from  her  torments.  This 
lasted  for  a  couple  of  days  and  occurred  regularly 
every  three  weeks,  after  which  she  gradually  revived 
again. 

Her  fussy  conversation  was  limited  to  a  constantly 
recurrent  discussion  of  all  sorts  of  family-matters, 
with  appropriate  annotations.  She  explained  to 
Cornelie  all  the  family-connections  of  her  friends, 
American  and  European,  but  she  enlarged  more  par- 
ticularly upon  the  great  European  families  which 
she  numbered  among  her  acquaintances.  Cornelie 
could  never  listen  to  what  she  was  saying  and  for- 
got the  pedigrees  again  at  once.  It  was  sometimes 
unendurably  tedious  to  have  to  listen  for  so  long; 
and  only  for  this  reason,  as  though  she  were  forced 
to  it,  Cornelie  found  the  energy  to  talk  a  little  her- 


242  THE  INEVITABLE 

self,  to  relate  an  anecdote,  to  tell  a  story.  When 
she  saw  that  the  old  woman  was  very  fond  of  anec- 
dotes, riddles  and  puns,  she  collected  as  many  as 
she  could  from  the  Vie  parisienne  and  the  Journal 
pour  rire  and  kept  them  ready  to  hand.  And  Mrs. 
Uxeley  thought  her  very  entertaining.  Once,  as  she 
noticed  Duco's  daily  letter,  she  referred  to  it;  and 
Cornelie  suddenly  discovered  that  the  old  lady  was 
devoured  with  curiosity.  Then  she  quietly  told  her 
the  truth :  her  marriage,  her  divorce,  her  independ- 
ent ideas,  her  meeting  and  her  life  with  Duco.  The 
old  woman  was  a  little  disappointed  because  Cor- 
nelie spoke  so  simply  about  it  all.  She  merely  ad- 
vised her  to  live  discreetly  and  correctly  now. 
What  people  said  about  former  incidents  did  not 
matter  so  very  much.  But  there  must  be  no  occa- 
sion for  gossip  now.  Cornelie  promised  meekly. 
And  Mrs.  Uxeley  showed  her  her  albums,  with  her 
own  photographs,  dating  back  to  her  young  days, 
and  the  photographs  of  all  sorts  of  men.  And  she 
told  her  about  this  friend  and  that  friend  and,  vain- 
gloriously,  allowed  the  suggestion  of  a  very  lurid 
past  to  peep  through.  But  she  had  always  lived 
discreetly  and  correctly.  That  was  her  pride.  And 
what  Cornelie  had  done  was  wrong.  .  .  . 

The  hour  or  so  from  eleven  to  half-past  twelve 
was  a  relief.  Then  the  old  woman  regularly  went 
to  sleep  —  her  only  sleep  in  the  twenty-four  hours 
—  and  Urania  came  to  fetch  Cornelie  for  a  drive 
or  a  walk  along  the  Promenade  or  to  sit  in  the  Jar- 
din  Public.  And  it  was  the  only  moment  when  Cor- 
nelie more  or  less  appreciated  her  new-found  luxury 
and  took  pleasure  in  the  gratification  of  her  vanity. 
The  passers-by  turned  round  to  stare  at  the  two 
young  and  pretty  women  in  their  exquisite  serge 
frocks,  with  their  fashionable  headgear  withdrawn 
in  the  twilight  of  their  sunshades,  and  admired  the 


THE  INEVITABLE  243 

Princess  di  Forte-Braccio's  glossy  victoria,  irre- 
proachable liveries  and  spanking  greys. 

Gilio  maintained  a  reserved  and  respectful  atti- 
tude towards  Cornelie.  He  was  polite  but  kept  a 
courteous  distance  when  he  joined  the  two  ladies  for 
a  moment  in  the  gardens  or  on  the  Jetee.  After 
the  night  in  the  pergola,  after  the  sudden  flash  of 
his  angry  knife,  she  was  afraid  of  him,  afraid  also 
because  she  had  lost  much  of  her  courage  and 
haughtiness.  But  she  could  not  answer  him  more 
coldly  than  she  did,  because  she  was  grateful  to  him 
as  well  as  to  Urania  for  the  care  shown  her  during 
the  first  few  days,  for  their  tact  in  not  at  once  sur- 
rendering her  to  Mrs.  Uxeley  and  in  keeping  her 
with  them  until  she  had  recovered  some  of  her 
strength. 

In  the  freedom  of  those  mornings,  when  she  felt 
herself  released  from  the  old  woman  —  vain,  selfish, 
insignificant,  ridiculous  —  who  was  as  the  caricature 
of  her  life,  she  felt  that  in  Urania's  friendship  she 
was  finding  herself  again,  she  became  conscious 
of  being  at  Nice,  she  contemplated  the  garish  bustle 
around  her  with  clearer  eyes  and  she  lost  the  unreal- 
ity of  the  first  days.  At  such  times  it  was  as  though 
she  saw  herself  again  for  the  first  time,  in  her  light 
serge  walking-dress,  sitting  in  the  garden,  her  gloved 
fingers  playing  with  the  tassels  of  her  suashade. 
She  could  hardly  believe  in  herself,  but  she  saw 
herself.  Deep  down  within  herself,  hidden  even 
from  Urania,  she  concealed  her  longing,  her  home- 
sickness, her  stifling  discontent.  She  sometimes  felt 
ready  to  burst  into  sobs.  But  she  listened  to  Urania 
and  joined  in  her  laughter  and  talk  and  looked  up 
with  a  smile  at  Gilio,  who  stood  in  front  of  her, 
mincing  to  and  fro  on  the  tips  of  his  shoes  and 
swinging  his  walking-stick  behind  his  back.  Some- 
times, suddenly  —  as  a  vision  whirling  through  the 


244  THE  INEVITABLE 

crowd  —  she  saw  Duco,  the  studio,  the  happiness 
of  the  past  fading  away  for  one  brief  moment. 
Then  with  her  finger-tips  she  felt  his  letter  of  that 
morning,  between  the  strips  of  gathered  lace  in  front 
of  her  bolero,  and  just  crushed  the  hard  envelope 
against  her  breast,  as  something  belonging  to  him 
that  was  caressing  her. 

And  it  was  not  to  be  denied:  she  saw  herself  and 
Nice  around  her;  she  became  sensible  of  new  life: 
it  was  not  unreal,  even  though  it  was  not  actual  to 
her  soul ;  it  was  a  sorrowful  comedy,  in  which  she 
—  dismally,  feebly,  listlessly  —  played  her  part. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

It  was  all  severely  regulated,  as  by  rule,  and 
there  was  no  possibility  of  the  least  alteration: 
everything  was  done  in  accordance  with  a  fixed  law. 
The  reading  of  the  newspaper;  her  hour  and  a  half 
to  herself;  then  lunch.  After  lunch,  the  drive,  the 
Jetee,  the  visits;  every  day,  those  visits  and  after- 
noon teas.  Once  in  a  way,  a  dL*:?r-party;  and  in  the 
evening  generally  a  dance,  a  reception  or  a  theatre. 
She  made  new  acquaintances  by  the  sec  re  and  forgot 
them  again  at  once  and  no  longer  reme  nbered,  when 
she  saw  them  again,  whether  she  knew  them  or  not. 
As  a  rule  people  were  fairly  pleasant  to  her  in  that 
cosmopolitan  set,  because  they  knew  that  she  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  Princess  Urania's.  But, 
like  Urania  herself,  she  was  sometimes  conscious, 
from  the  feminine  bearers  of  the  old  Italian  names 
and  titles  which  sometimes  glittered  in  that  set, 
of  an  overwhelming  pride  and  contempt.  The  men 
always  asked  to  be  introduced  to  her;  but,  when- 
ever she  asked  to  be  introduced  to  their  ladies,  her 
only  reward  was  a  nod  of  vague  surprise.  She 
herself  minded  very  little,  but  she  felt  sorry  for 
Urania.  For  she  saw  at  once,  at  Urania's  own 
parties,  that  they  hardly  looked  upon  her  as  the 
hostess,  that  they  surrounded  and  made  much  of 
Gilio,  but  accorded  to  his  wife  no  more  than  the 
civility  which  was  her  due  as  Princess  di  Forte- 
Braccio,  without  ever  forgetting  that  she  was  once 
Miss  Hope.  And  for  Urania  this  contempt  was 
more  difficult  to  put  up  with  than  for  herself.  For 
she  accepted  her  role  as  the  companion.  She  al- 

245 


246  THE  INEVITABLE 

ways  kept  an  eye  on  Mrs.  Uxeley,  constantly  joined 
her  for  a  minute  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  fetched 
a  fan  which  Mrs.  Uxeley  had  left  in  the  next  room 
or  did  her  this  or  that  trifling  service.  Then  she 
would  sit  down,  against  the  wall  alone  in  the  busily 
humming  drawing-room,  and  gaze  indifferently  be- 
fore her.  She  sat,  always  very  smartly  dressed, 
in  an  attitude  of  graceful  indifference  and  weary 
boredom,  tapping  her  little  foot  or  unfolding  her 
fan.  She  took  no  notice  of  anybody.  Sometimes 
a  couple  of  men  would  come  up  to  her  and  she  spoke 
to  them,  or  danced  with  one  of  them,  indifferently, 
as  though  conferring  a  favour.  Once,  when  Gilio 
was  talking  to  her,  she  sitting  and  he  standing,  and 
the  Duchess  di  Luca  and  Countess  Costi  both  came 
up  to  him  and,  standing,  began  to  chaff  him  pro- 
fusely, without  honouring  her  with  a  word  or  a 
glance,  she  first  stared  at  the  ladies  between  her 
mocking  lids,  eyeing  them  from  head  to  foot,  and 
then  rose  slowly,  took  Gilio's  arm  and,  with  a  glance 
which  darted  sharp  as  a  needle  from  her  narrowed 
eyes,  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  must  excuse  me  if  I 
rob  you  of  the  Prince  di  Forte-Braccio,  because  I 
have  to  finish  a  private  conversation." 

And  with  the  pressure  of  her  arm  she  made  Gilio 
move  on  a  few  steps,  then  at  once  sat  down  again, 
made  him  sit  down  beside  her  and  began  to  whisper 
with  him  very  confidentially,  while  she  left  the 
duchess  and  countess  standing  two  yards  away,  open- 
mouthed  with  stupefaction  at  her  rudeness,  and 
furthermore  spread  her  train  wide  between  herself 
and  the  two  ladies  and  waved  her  fan  to  and  fro, 
as  though  to  preserve  a  distance.  She  could  do 
this  sort  of  thing  so  calmly,  so  tactfully  and  haugh- 
tily, that  Gilio  was  tickled  to  death  and  sat  and 
giggled  with  delight: 


THE  INEVITABLE  247 

"I  wish  that  Urania  knew  how  to  behave  like 
that!  "'  he  said,  pleased  as'  a  child  at  the  diversion 
which  she  had  afforded  him. 

"  Urania  is  too  nice  to  do  anything  so  odious," 
she  replied. 

She  did  not  make  herself  liked,  but  people  became 
afraid  of  her,  afraid  of  her  quiet  malice,  and  avoided 
offending  her  in  future.  Moreover,  the  men 
thought  her  pretty  and  agreeable  and  were  also 
attracted  by  her  haughty  indifference.  And,  with- 
out really  intending  it,  she  achieved  a  position,  ap- 
parently by  using  the  greatest  diplomacy,  but  in 
reality  quite  naturally  and  easily.  While  Mrs.  Uxe- 
ley's  egoism  was  flattered  by  her  little  attentions  — 
always  dutifully  remembered  and  paid  with  a  charm- 
ing air  of  maternal  solicitude,  in  contrast  to  which 
Mrs.  Uxeley  thought  it  delightful  to  simper  like  a 
young  girl  —  Cornelie  gradually  gathered  a  court  of 
men  around  her  in  the  evenings;  and  the  women  be- 
came insipidly  civil.  Urania  often  told  her  how 
clever  she  thought  her,  how  much  tact  she  displayed. 
Cornelie  shrugged  her  shoulders :  it  all  happened  of 
itself;  and  really  she  did  not  care.  But  still,  gradu- 
ally, she  recovered  some  of  her  cheerfulness.  When 
she  saw  herself  standing  in  the  glass,  she  had  to  con- 
fess to  herself  that  she  was  better-looking  than  she 
had  ever  been,  either  as  a  girl  or  as  a  newly-married 
woman.  Her  tall,  slender  figure  had  a  languorous 
line  of  pride  that  gave  her  a  special  grace;  her  throat 
was  statelier,  her  bosom  fuller;  her  waist  was 
slimmer  in  these  new  dresses;  her  hips  had  become 
heavier,  her  arms  more  rounded;  and,  though  her 
features  no  longer  wore  the  look  of  radiant  happi- 
ness which  they  had  worn  in  Rome,  her  mocking 
smile  and  her  negligent  irony  gave  her  a  certain 
attraction  for  those  unknown  men,  something  more 
alluring  and  provoking  than  the  greatest  coquetry 


248  THE  INEVITABLE 

would  have  been.  And  Cornelie  had  not  wished  for 
this;  but,  now  that  it  came  of  itself,  she  accepted  it. 
It  was  foreign  to  her  nature  to  refuse  it.  And, 
besides,  Mrs.  Uxeley  was  pleased  with  her.  Cor- 
nelie had  such  a  pretty  way  of  whispering  to  her: 

"'Dear  lady,  you  were  in  such  pain  yesterday. 
Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  go  home  a  little  earlier 
to-night?  " 

And  then  Mrs.  Uxeley  would  simper  like  a  girl 
who  was  being  admonished  by  her  mother  not  to 
dance  too  much  that  evening.  She  loved  these  little 
ways  of  Cornelie's;  and  Cornelie,  with  careless  in- 
difference, gave  her  what  she  wanted.  And  those 
evenings  amused  her  more  than  they  did  at  first; 
only,  the  amusement  was  combined  with  self-re- 
proach as  soon  as  she  thought  of  Duco,  of  their  sepa- 
ration, of  Rome,  of  the  studio,  of  the  happiness  of 
those  past  days,  which  she  had  lost  through  her  lack 
of  fortitude. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

Two  months  had  passed  like  this.  It  was  Janu- 
ary; and  these  were  busy  days  for  Cornelie,  be- 
cause Mrs.  Uxeley  was  soon  to  give  one  of  her  cele- 
brated evenings  and  Cornelie's  free  hours  in  the 
morning  were  now  taken  up  with  running  all  sorts 
of  errands.  Urania  generally  drove  with  her;  and 
she  came  to  rely  upon  Urania.  They  had  to  go  to 
upholsterers,  to  pastry-cooks,  to  florists  and  to  jew- 
ellers, where  Cornelie  and  Urania  selected  presents 
for  the  cotillon.  Mrs.  Uxeley  never  went  out  for 
this,  but  occupied  herself  with  every  trifling  indoor 
detail;  and  there  were  endless  discussions,  followed 
by  more  drives  to  the  shops,  for  the -old  lady  was 
anything  but  easy  to  please,  vain  as  she  was  of  her 
fame  as  a  hostess  and  afraid  of  losing  it  through 
the  least  omission. 

During  one  of  these  drives,  as  the  victoria  was 
turning  into  the  Avenue  de  la  Gare,  Cornelie  started 
so  violently  that  she  clutched  Urania's  arm  and 
could  not  restrain  an  exclamation.  Urania  asked 
her  what  she  had  seen,  but  she  was  unable  to  speak 
and  Urania  made  her  get  out  at  a  confectioner's  to 
drink  a  glass  of  water.  She  was  very  nearly  faint- 
ing and  looked  deathly  pale.  She  was  not  able  to 
continue  her  errands;  and  they  drove  back  to  Mrs. 
Uxeley's  villa.  The  old  lady  was  displeased  at  this 
sudden  fainting-fit  and  grumbled  so  that  Urania  went 
off  alone  to  complete  the  errands.  After  lunch, 
however,  Cornelie  felt  better,  made  her  apologies 
and  accompanied  Mrs.  Uxeley  to  an  afternoon  tea. 

Next  day,  when  she  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Uxeley 
249 


250  THE  INEVITABLE 

and  a  couple  of  friends  on  the  Jetee,  she  seemed  to 
see  the  same  thing  again.  She  turned  as  white  as  a 
sheet,  but  retained  her  composure  and  laughed  and 
talked  merrily. 

These  were  the  days  of  the  preparations.  The 
date  of  the  entertainment  drew  nearer;  and  at  last 
the  evening  arrived.  Mrs.  Uxeley  was  trembling 
with  nervousness  like  a  young  girl  and  found  the 
necessary  strength  to  walk  through  the  whole  villa, 
which  was  all  light  and  flowers.  And  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction  she  sat  down  for  a  moment.  She  was 
dressed.  Her  face  was  smooth  as  porcelain,  her 
hair  was  waved  and  glittered  with  diamond  pins. 
Her  gown  of  pale-blue  brocade  was  cut  very  low; 
and  she  gleamed  like  a  reliquary.  A  triple  rope 
of  priceless  pearls  hung  down  to  her  waist.  In  her 
hand  —  she  was  not  yet  gloved  —  she  held  a  gold- 
knobbed  cane,  which  was  indispensable  when  she 
wanted  to  rise.  And  it  was  only  when  she  rose 
that  she  showed  her  age,  when  she  worked  herself 
erect  by  muscular  efforts,  with  that  look  of  pain  in 
her  face,  with  that  twinge  of  rheumatism  which 
shot  through  her.  Cornelie,  not  yet  dressed,  after 
a  last  glance  through  the  villa,  blazing  with  light, 
swooning  with  flowers,  hurried  to  her  room  and, 
already  feeling  tired,  dropped  into  the  chair  in  front 
of  her  dressing-table,  to  have  her  hair  done  quickly. 
She  was  irritable  and  told  the  maid  to  hurry.  She 
was  just  ready  when  the  first  guests  arrived  and 
she  was  able  to  join  Mrs.  Uxeley.  And  the  car- 
riages rolled  up.  Cornelie,  at  the  top  of  the  monu- 
mental staircase,  looked  down  into  the  hall,  where 
the  people  were  streaming  in,  the  ladies  in  their 
long  evening-wraps  —  almost  more  expensive  even 
than  their  dresses  —  which  they  carefully  gave  up  in 
the  crowded,  buzzing  cloakroom.  And  the  first 
arrivals  came  up  the  stairs,  waiting  so  as  not  to 


THE  INEVITABLE  251 

be  the  very  first,  and  were  beamed  upon  by  Mrs. 
Uxeley.  The  drawing-rooms  soon  filled.  In  addi- 
tion to  the  reception-rooms,  the  hostess'  own  rooms 
were  thrown  open,  forming  in  all  a  suite  of  twelve 
apartments.  Whereas  the  corridors  and  stairs  were 
adorned  only  with  clumps  of  red  and  white  and  pink 
camellias,  in  the  rooms  the  floral  decorations  were 
contained  in  hundreds  of  vases  and  bowls  and  dishes,, 
which  stood  about  on  every  hand  and,  with  the  light 
of  the  shaded  candles,  gave  an  intimate  charm  to 
the  entertainment.  That  was  the  speciality  of  Mrs. 
Uxeley's  decorations  on  great  occasions:  the  elec- 
tric light  not  used;  instead,  on  every  hand  candles 
with  little  shades,  on  every  hand  glasses  and  bowls 
full  of  flowers,  giving  the  effect  of  a  fairy  garden. 
Though  perhaps  the  main  outlines  were  broken,  a 
most  charming  effect  of  cosiness  was  gained.  Small 
groups  and  couples  could  find  a  place  everywhere: 
behind  a  screen,  in  a  loggia;  you  constantly  found 
a  spot  for  privacy;  and  this  perhaps  explained  the 
vogue  of  Mrs.  Uxeley's  parties.  The  villa,  suit- 
able for  giving  a  court  ball,  was  used  only  for  giving 
entertainments  of  a  luxurious  intimate  character  to 
hundreds  of  people  who  were  quite  unknown  to  one 
another.  Each  little  set  chose  itself  a  little  corner, 
where  it  made  itself  at  home.  A  very  tiny  boudoir, 
all  in  Japanese  lacquer  and  Japanese  silk,  was  aimed 
at  generally,  but  was  at  once  captured  by  Gilio,  the 
Countess  di  Rosavilla,  the  Duchess  di  Luca  and 
Countess  Costi.  They  did  not  even  go  to  the  music- 
room,  where  a  concert  formed  the  first  item.  Pa- 
derewski  was  playing,  Sigrid  Arnoldson  was  to  sing. 
The  music-room  also  was  lighted  by  shaded  can- 
dles; and  everybody  whispered  that,  in  this  soft 
light,  Mrs.  Uxeley  did  not  look  a  day  over  forty. 
During  the  interval  she  simpered  to  two  very  young 
journalists  who  were  to  describe  her  party.  Ura- 


252  THE  INEVITABLE 

nia,  sitting  beside  Cornelie,  was  addressed  by  a 
Frenchman  whom  she  introduced  to  her  friend:  the 
Chevalier  de  Breuil.  Cornelie  knew  that  Urania 
had  met  him  at  Ostend  and  that  his  name  was  cou- 
pled with  the  Princess  di  Forte-Braccio's.  Urania 
had  never  mentioned  De  Breuil  to  her,  but  Cornelie 
now  saw,  by  her  smile,  her  blush  and  the  sparkle 
in  her  eyes,  that  people  were  right.  She  left  them 
to  themselves,  feeling  sad  when  she  thought  of 
Urania.  She  understood  that  the  little  princess  was 
consoling  herself  for  her  husband's  neglect;  and  she 
suddenly  thought  this  whole  life  of  ma^e-believe 
disgusting.  She  longed  for  Rome,  for  the  studio, 
for  Duco,  for  independence,  love  and  happiness. 
She  had  had  it  all;  but  it  had  been  fated  not  to  en- 
dure. Everything  around  her  was  like  one  great 
lie,  more  brilliant  than  at  the  Hague,  but  even  more 
false,  brutal  and  depraved.  People  no  longer  even 
pretended  to  believe  the  lie:  here  they  showed  a 
brutal  sincerity.  The  lie  was  respected,  but  no- 
body believed  in  it,  nobody  put  forward  the  lie  as 
a  truth ;  the  lie  was  nothing  more  than  a  form. 

Cornelie  wandered  through  the  rooms  by  herself, 
went  up  to  Mrs.  Uxeley  for  a  moment,  in  accord- 
ance with  her  habit,  whispered  to  ask  how  she  felt, 
whether  she  wanted  anything,  if  everything  was  go- 
ing well,  then  continued  on  her  way  through  the 
rooms.  She  was  standing  by  a  vase,  rearranging 
some  orchids,  when  a  woman  in  black  velvet,  fair- 
haired,  with  a  full  throat  and  bosom,  spoke  to  her 
In  English : 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Holt.  I  dare  say  you  don't  know 
my  name,  but  I  know  yours.  L  very  much  want  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  I  have  often  been  to 
Holland  and  I  read  Dutch  a  little.  I  read  your 
pamphlet  on  The  Social  Position  of  Divorced 


THE  INEVITABLE  253 

Women  and  I  thought  a  good  deal  of  what  you 
wrote  most  interesting." 

'  You  are  very  kind.  Shall  we  sit  down  ?  I  re- 
member your  name  too.  You  were  one  of  the  lead- 
ers of  the  Women's  Congress  in  London,  were  you 
not?" 

'  Yes,  I  spoke  about  the  training  of  children. 
Weren't  you  able  to  come  to  London?  " 

'  No,  I  did  think  about  it,  but  I  was  in  Rome  at 
the  time  and  I  couldn't  manage  it." 

'  That  was  a  pity.  The  congress  was  a  great 
step  forward.  If  your  pamphlet  had  been  trans- 
lated then  and  distributed,  you  would  have  had  a 
great  success." 

"  I  care  very  little  for  success  of  that  kind." 

"  Of  course,  I  can  understand  that.  But  the 
success  of  your  book  is  also  for  the  good  of  the 
great  cause." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that?  Is  there  any  merit 
in  my  little  book?  " 

"Do  you  doubt  it?" 

11  Very  often." 

"  How  is  that  possible?  It  is  written  with  such 
a  sure  touch." 

"  Perhaps  just  for  that  reason." 

"  I  don't  understand  you.  There's  a  vagueness 
sometimes  about  Dutch  people  which  we  English 
don't  understand,  something  like  a  reflection  of  your 
beautiful  skies  in  your  character." 

"  Do  you  never  doubt?  Do  you  feel  sure  of  your 
ideas  on  the  training  of  children?  " 

"  I  have  studied  children  in  schools,  in  creches 
and  in  their  homes  and  I  have  acquired  very  decided 
ideas.  And  I  work  in  accordance  with  these  ideas 
for  the  people  of  the  future.  I  will  send  you  my 
pamphlet,  containing  the  gist  of  my  speeches  at  the 


254  THE  INEVITABLE 

congress.     Are  you  working  on  another  pamphlet 
now?  " 

'  No,  I  regret  to  say." 

'*  Why  not?  We  must  all  fight  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, if  we  are  to  conquer." 

"  I  believe  I  have  said  all  that  I  had  to  say.  I 
wrote  what  I  did  on  impulse,  from  personal  ex- 
perience. And  then  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"  Then  things  changed.  All  women  are  different 
and  I  never  approved  of  generalizing.  And  do 
you  believe  that  there  are  many  women  who  can 
work  for  a  universal  object  with  a  man's  thorough- 
ness, when  they  have  found  a  lesser  object  for 
themselves,  a  small  happiness,  such  as  a  love  to 
satisfy  their  own  ego,  in  which  they  can  be  happy? 
Don't  you  think  that  every  woman  has  slumbering 
inside  her  a  selfish  craving  for  her  own  love  and 
happiness  and  that,  when  she  has  found  this,  the 
outside  world  and  the  future  cease  to  interest  her?  " 
4  Possibly.  But  so  few  women  find  it." 

"  I  believe  there  are  not  many.  But  that  is  an- 
other question.  And  I  do  believe  that  an  interest 
in  universal  questions  is  a  pis-aller  with  most 
women." 

'  "  You    have   become    an    apostate.     You    speak 
quite  differently  from  what  you  wrote  a  year  ago." 

u  Yes,  I  have  become  very  humble,  because  I  am 
more  sincere.  Of  course  I  believe  in  certain  women, 
in  certain  choice  spirits.  But  would  the  majority 
not  always  remain  feminine,  just  women  and  weak?  " 

"  Not  with  a  sensible  training." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  that  it  lies  in  that,  in  the  train- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"  Of  the  child,  of  the  girl." 

"  I  believe  that  I  have  never  been  educated  and 
that  this  constitutes  my  weakness." 


THE  INEVITABLE  255 

"  Our  girls  should  be  told  when  still  very  young 
of  the  struggle  that  lies  before  them." 

1  You  are  right.  We  —  my  friends,  my  sisters 
and  I  —  had  the  *  safety '  of  marriage  impressed 
upon  us  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  Do  you 
know  whom  I  think  the  most  to  be  pitied?  Our  pa- 
rents !  They  honestly  believed  that  they  were  hav- 
ing us  taught  all  that  was  necessary.  And  now,  at 
this  moment,  they  must  see  that  they  did  not  divine 
the  future  correctly  and  that  their  training,  their  edu- 
cation was  no  education  at  all,  because  they  failed  to 
inform  their  children  of  the  struggle  which  was 
being  waged  right  before  their  eyes.  It  is  our 
parents  that  are  to  be  pitied.  They  can  mend  no- 
thing now.  They  see  us — ;~jprls7  young  women  of 
twenty  to  thirty  —  overwhelrn  rfttby  life;  and  they 
have  not  given  us  the  strenq-iK^ibr  it.  They  kept  us 
sheltered  as  long  as  possible  under  the  paternal 
wing;  and  then  they  began  to  think  of  our  marriage,, 
not  in  order  to  get  rid  of  us,  but  with  a  view  to  our 
happiness,  our  safety  and  our  future.  We  are  in- 
deed unfortunate,  we  girls  and  women  who  were- 
not,  like  our  younger  sisters,  told  of  the  struggle 
that  lay  just  before  us;  but  I  believe  that  we  may 
still  have  hope  in  our  youth  and  that  our  parents 
are  unhappier  and  more  to  be  pitied  than  we,  be- 
cause they  have  nothing  more  to  hope  for  and 
because  they  must  secretly  confess  that  they  went 
astray  in  their  love  for  their  children.  They  were 
still  educating  us  according  to  the  past,  while  the 
future  was  already  so  near  at  hand.  I  pity  our 
parents  and  I  could  almost  love  them  better  for  that 
reason  than  I  ever  did  before." 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

She  had  suddenly  turned  very  pale,  as  though 
under  the  stress  of  a  sudden  emotion.  She  covered 
her  face  with  her  fluttering  fan  and  her  fingers  trem- 
bled violently;  her  whole  body  shuddered. 

"  That  is  well  thought  on  your  part,"  said  Mrs. 
Holt.  "  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you.  I  always 
find  a  certain  charm  in  Dutch  people:  that  vague- 
ness, which  we  are  unr.ble  to  seize,  and  then  all  at 
once  a  light  that  nVshes  out  of  a  cloud.  ...  I  hope 
to  see  you  again.  "<iCvnj  at  home  on  Tuesdays,  at 
five  o'clock.  Will  yoiT'fcome  one  day  with  Mrs. 
Uxeley?" 

Mrs.  Holt  pressed  her  hand  and  disappeared 
among  the  other  guests.  Cornelie  had  risen  from 
her  chair,  while  her  knees  seemed  to  give  way  be- 
neath her.  She  remained  standing,  half-turned  to- 
wards the  room,  looking  in  the  glass ;  and  her  fingers 
played  with  the  orchids  in  a  Venetian  vase  on  the 
console-table.  She  was  still  rather  pale,  but  con- 
trolled herself,  though  her  heart  was  beating  loudly 
and  her  breast  heaving.  And  she  looked  in  the 
glass.  She  saw  first  her  own  figure,  her  beautiful, 
slender  outline,  in  her  dress  of  white  and  black 
Chantilly,  with  the  white-lace  train,  foaming  with 
flounces,  the  black-lace  tunic  with  the  scalloped 
border  and  sprinkled  with  steel  spangles  and  blue 
stones,  a  spray  of  orchids  in  the  sleeveless  corsage, 
which  left  her  neck  and  arms  and  shoulders  bare. 
Her  hair  was  bound  with  three  Greek  fillets  of 

pearls;  and  her  fan  of  white  feathers  —  a  present 

256 


THE  INEVITABLE  257 

from  Urania  —  was  like  foam  against  her  throat. 
She  saw  herself  first  and  then,  in  the  mirror,  she  saw 
him.  He  was  coming  nearer  to  her.  She  did  not 
move,  only  her  fingers  played  with  the  flowers  in  the 
vase.  She  felt  as  though  she  wished  to  take  flight, 
but  her  knees  gave  way  and  her  feet  were  paralysed. 
She  stood  rooted  to  the  floor,  hypnotized.  She  was 
unable  to  stir.  And  she  saw  him  come  nearer  and 
nearer,  while  her  back  remained  half-turned  to  the 
room.  He  approached;  and  his  appearance  seemed 
to  fling  out  a  net  in  which  she  was  caught.  He  was 
close  by  her  now,  close  behind  her.  Mechanically 
she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  in  the  glass  and  met 
his  eyes  in  the  mirror.  She  thought  that  she  would 
faint.  She  felt  squeezed  between  him  and  the  glass. 
In  the  mirror  the  room  went  round  and  round,  the 
candles  whirled  giddily,  like  a  reeling  firmament. 
He  did  not  say  anything  yet.  She  only  saw  his  eyes 
gazing  and  his  mouth  smiling  under  his  moustache. 
And  he  still  said  nothing.  Then,  in  that  unendu- 
rable lack  of  space  between  him  and  the  mirror, 
which  did  not  even  give  shelter  as  a  wall  would  have 
done,  but  which  reflected  him  so  that  he  held  her 
twice  imprisoned,  behind  and  before,  she  turned 
round  slowly  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  But  she 
did  not  speak  either.  They  looked  at  each  other 
without  a  word. 

"You  never  expected  this:  that  you  would  see 
me  here  one  day,"  he  said,  at  last. 

It  was  more  than  a  year  since  she  had  heard  his 
voice.  But  she  felt  his  voice  inside  her. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  at  last,  haughtily,  coldly, 
distantly.  "  Though  I  saw  you  once  or  twice,  in 
the  street,  on  the  Jetee." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Should  I  have  bowed  to  you, 
do  you  think?  " 

She  shrugged  her  bare  shoulders;  and  he  looked 


25  8  THE  INEVITABLE 

at  them.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  that  she  was 
half-naked  that  evening. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  still  coldly  and  distantly. 
"  Any  more  than  you  need  have  spoken  to  me 
now." 

He  smiled  at  her.  He  stood  before  her  as  a  wall. 
He  stood  before  her  as  a  man.  His  head,  his  shoul- 
ders, his  chest,  his  legs,  his  whole  stature  rose  before 
her  as  incarnate  manhood. 

"  Of  course  I  needn't  have  done  so,"  he  said;  and 
•she  felt  his  voice  inside  her :  she  felt  his  voice  sinking 
in  her  like  molten  bronze  into  a  mould.  "  If  I  had 
met  you  somewhere  in  Holland,  I  would  only  have 
taken  off  my  hat  and  not  spoken  to  you.  But  we 
are  in  a  foreign  country  .  .  ." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"  I  felt  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you.  ...  I 
wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Can't  we  do  that 
as  strangers?  " 

"  As  strangers?  "  she  echoed. 

"  Oh,  well,  we're  not  strangers :  we  even  know 
each  other  uncommonly  intimately,  eh?  ...  Come 
and  sit  down  and  tell  me  about  yourself.  Did  you 
like  Rome?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  had  led  her  as  though  with  his  will  to  a  couch 
behind  a  half-damask,  half-glass,  Louis-XV.  screen; 
and  she  dropped  down  upon  it  in  a  rosy  twilight  of 
candles,  with  bunches  of  pink  roses  around  her  in 
all  sorts  of  Venetian  glasses.  He  sat  on  an  ottoman, 
bending  towards  her  slightly,  with  his  arms  on  his 
knees  and  his  hands  folded  together : 

"  They've  been  gossiping  about  you  finely  at  the 
Hague.  First  about  your  pamphlet  .  .  .  and  then 
about  your  painter." 

Her  eyes  pierced  him  like  needles.     He  laughed: 

"  You  can  look  just  as  angry  as  ever.  .  .  .  Tell 


THE  INEVITABLE  259 

me,  do  you  ever  hear  from  the  old  people  ?     They're 
in  a  bad  way." 

"  Now  and  then.  I  was  able  to  send  them  some 
money  lately." 

'  That's  damned  good  of  you.  They  don't  de*- 
serve  it.  They  said  that  you  no  longer  existed  for 
them." 

"  Mamma  wrote  that  they  were  so  pushed  for 
money.  Then  I  sent  them  a  hundred  guilders.  It 
was  the  most  that  I  could  do." 

"  Oh,  now  that  they  find  you  sending  them 
money,  you'll  begin  to  exist  for  them  again !  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  I  was  sorry  for  them  .  .  . 
and  sorry  I  couldn't  send  more." 

"  Ah,  when  you  look  so  thundering  smart  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  pay  for  my  clothes." 

"  I'm  only  stating  a  fact.  I'm  not  venturing  to 
criticize.  I  think  it  damned  handsome  of  you  to 
send  them  money.  But  you  do  look  thundering 
smart.  .  .  .  Look  here,  let  me  tell  you  something: 
you've  become  a  damned  handsome  girl." 

He  stared  at  her,  with  his  smile,  which  compelled 
her  to  look  at  him. 

Then  she  replied,  very  calmly,  waving  her  fan 
lightly  in  front  of  her  bare  neck,  sheltering  in  the 
foam  of  her  fan : 

14  I'm  damned  glad  to  hear  it!  " 

He  gave  a  loud,  throaty  laugh: 

"  There,  I  like  that !  You've  still  got  your  witty 
sense  of  repartee.  Always  to  the  point.  Damned 
clever  of  you !  " 

She  stood  up  strained  and  nervous: 

11 1  must  leave  you.     I  must  go  to  Mrs.  Uxeley." 

He  spread  out  his  arms: 

"  Stay  and  sit  with  me  a  little  longer.  It  does 
me  good  to  talk  to  you." 


260  THE  INEVITABLE 

'  Then  restrain  yourself  a  bit  and  don't  '  damn ' 
quite  so  much.  I've  not  been  used  to  it  lately." 

"  I'll  do  my  best.     Sit  down." 

She  fell  back  and  hid  herself  behind  her  fan. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  that  you  have  positively  become 
a  very  ...  a  very  beautiful  woman.  Now  is  that 
like  a  compliment?  " 

"  It  sounds  more  like  one." 

"  Well,  it's  the  best  I  can  do,  you  know.  So 
you  must  make  the  most  of  it.  And  now  tell  me 
about  Rome.  How  were  you  living  there?" 

"  Why  should  I  tell  you  about  it?  " 

"  Because  I'm  interested." 

"  You  have  no  need  to  be  interested." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  I  happen  to  be.  I've  never  quite 
forgotten  you.  And  I  should  be  surprised  if  you 
had  me." 

"  I  have,  quite,"  she  said,  coolly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  smile.  He  said  no- 
thing, but  she  felt  that  he  knew  better.  She  was 
afraid  to  convince  him  further. 

"  Is  it  true,  what  they  say  at  the  Hague?  About 
Van  der  Staal?" 

She  looked  at  him  haughtily. 

"  Come,  out  with  it!  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  a  cheeky  baggage !  Do  you  no  longer 
care  a  straw  for  the  whole  boiling  of  them?  " 

"  No." 

"  And  how  do  you  manage  here,  with  this  old 
hag?  " 

'  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Do  they  just  accept  you  here,  at  Nice?  " 

"  I  don't  brag  about  my  independence;  and  no  one 
is  able  to  comment  on  my  conduct  here." 

"Where  is  Van  der  Staal?" 

"  At  Florence." 


THE  INEVITABLE  261 

"Why  isn't  he  here?" 

"  I'm  not  going  to  answer  any  more  questions. 
You  are  indiscreet.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  you 
and  I  won't  be  cross-examined." 

She  was  very  nervous  again  and  once  more  rose 
to  her  feet.  He  spread  out  his  arms. 

"  Really,  Rudolph,  you  must  let  me  go,"  she  en- 
treated. "  I  have  to  go  to  Mrs.  Uxeley.  They  are 
to  dance  a  pavane  in  the  ball-room  and  I  have  to  ask 
for  instructions  and  hand  them  on.  Let  me  pass." 

'  Then  I'll  take  you  there.  Let  me  offer  you  my 
arm." 

"  Rudolph,  do  go  away!  Don't  you  see  how 
you're  upsetting  me?  This  meeting  has  been  so  un- 
expected. Do  let  me  go,  or  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  con- 
trol myself.  I'm  going  to  cry.  .  .  .  Why  did  you 
speak  to  me,  why  did  you  speak  to  me,  why  did  you 
come  here,  where  you  knew  that  you  would  meet 
me?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  see  one  of  Mrs.  Uxeley's 
parties  and  because  I  wanted  to  meet  you." 

"  You  must  understand  that  it  upsets  me  to  see 
you  again.  What  good  does  it  do  you?  We  are 
dead  to  each  other.  Why  should  you  want  to  pester 
me  like  this?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  know,  whether  we 
are  dead  to  each  other.  .  .  ." 

"  Dead,  dead,  quite  dead !  "  she  cried,  vehemently. 

He  laughed: 

"  Come,  don't  be  so  theatrical.  You  can  under- 
stand that  I  was  curious  to  see  you  again  and  talk 
to  you.  I  used  to  see  you  in  the  street,  in  your 
carriage,  on  the  Jetee;  and  I  was  pleased  to  find  you 
looking  so  well,  so  smart,  so  happy  and  so  hand- 
some. You  know  that  good-looking  women  are  my 
great  hobby.  You  are  much  better-looking  than 
you  used  to  be  when  you  were  my  wife.  If  you  had 


262  THE  INEVITABLE 

been  then  what  you  are  now,  I  should  never  have 
allowed  you  to  divorce  me.  .  .  .  Come,  don't  be  a 
child.  No  one  knows  here.  I  think  it  damned  jolly 
to  meet  you  here,  to  have  a  good  old  yarn  with  you 
and  to  have  you  leaning  on  my  arm.  Take  my  arm. 
Don't  make  a  fuss  and  I'll  take  you  where  you  want 
to  go.  Where  shall  we  find  Mrs.  Uxeley?  Intro- 
duce me  ...  as  a  friend  from  Holland.  .  .  ." 

"Rudolph.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  insist:  don't  bother!  There's  nothing  in 
it!  It  amuses  me  and  it's  no  end  of  a  lark  to  walk 
about  with  one's  divorced  wife  at  a  ball  at  Nice. 
A  delightful  town,  isn't  it?  I  go  to  Monte  Carlo 
every  day  and  I've  been  damned  lucky.  Won  three 
thousand  francs  yesterday.  Will  you  come  with  me 
one  day?  " 

'You're  mad!" 

"  I'm  not  mad  at  all.  I  want  to  enjoy  myself. 
And  I'm  proud  to  have  you  on  my  arm." 

She  withdrew  her  arm: 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be." 

"Now  don't  get  spiteful.  That's  all  rot:  let's 
enjoy  ourselves.  There  is  the  old  girl:  she's  look- 
ing at  you." 

She  had  passed  through  some  of  the  rooms  on 
his  arm;  and  they  saw,  near  a  tombola,  round  which 
people  were  crowding  to  draw  presents  and  surprises, 
Mrs.  Uxeley,  Gilio  and  the  Rosavilla,  Costi  and 
Luca  ladies.  They  were  all  very  gay  round  the 
pyramid  of  knickknacks,  behaving  lik,e  children  when 
the  number  of  one  of  them  turned  up  on  the  rou- 
lette-wheel. 

"  Mrs.  Uxeley,"  Cornelie  began,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "  may  I  introduce  a  fellow-countryman  of 
mine?  Baron  Brox." 

Mrs.  Uxeley  simpered,  uttered  a  few  amiable 
words  and  asked  if  he  wouldn't  draw  a  number. 


THE  INEVITABLE  263 

The  roulette-wheel  spun  round  and  round. 

"A  fellow-countryman,  Cornelie?" 
'  Yes,  Mrs.  Uxeley." 
'  What  do  you  say  his  name  is?  " 

"  Baron  Brox." 

"A  splendid  fellow!  A  handsome  fellow!  An 
astonishingly  handsome  fellow!  .  .  .  What  is  he? 
What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  He's  in  the  army,  a  first  lieutenant.  .  .  ." 

''  In  which  regiment?  " 

"  In  the  hussars." 

"At  the  Hague?" 

"  Yes." 

"  An  amazingly  good-looking  fellow !  I  like 
those  tall,  fine  men." 

"  Mrs.  Uxeley,  is  everything  going  as  it  should?  " 

"  Yes,  darling." 

;' Do  you  feel  all  right?" 

"  I  have  a  little  pain,  but  nothing  to  speak  about." 

"  Won't  it  soon  be  time  for  the  pavane?  " 

"  Yes,  see  that  the  girls  go  and  get  dressed. 
Has  the  hairdresser  brought  the  wigs  for  the  young 
men?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  go  and  collect  them  and  tell  them  to  hurry 
up.  They  must  be  ready  within  half  an  hour.  .  .  ." 

Rudolph  Brox  returned  from  the  tombola,  where 
he  had  drawn  a  silver  match-box.  He  thanked  Mrs. 
Uxeley,  who  simpered,  and,  when  he  saw  that  Cor- 
nelie was  moving  away,  he  went  after  her: 

"  Cornelie  .  .  ." 

"  Please,  Rudolph,  let  me  be.  I  have  to  collect 
the  girls  and  the  men  for  the  pavane.  I  have  a  lot 
to  do.  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  help  you.  .  .  ." 

She  beckoned  to  a  girl  or  two  and  sent  a  couple 
of  footmen  to  hunt  through  the  room  for  the  young 


264  THE  INEVITABl  £ 

men  and  to  ask  them  to  go  to  the  dressing-room. 
He  saw  that  she  was  pale  and  trembling  all  over 
her  body: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I'm  tired." 

"  Then  let's  go  and  get  something  to  drink." 

She  was  numb  with  nervousness.  The  music  of 
the  invisible  band  boom-boomed  fiercely  against  her 
brain;  and  at  times  the  innumerable  candles  whirled 
before  her  eyes  like  a  reeling  firmament.  The 
rooms  were  choked  with  people.  They  crowded 
and  laughed  aloud  and  showed  one  another  their 
presents;  the  men  trod  on  the  ladies'  trains.  An 
intoxicating,  suffocating  fragrance  of  flowers,  the 
atmosphere  peculiar  to  crowded  functions  and  the 
warm,  perfumed  odour  of  women's  flesh  hung  in 
the  rooms  like  a  cloud.  Cornelie  hunted  hither  and 
thither  and  at  last  collected  all  the  girls.  The 
ballet-master  came  to  ask  her  something.  A  butler 
came  to  ask  her  something.  And  Brox  did  not 
budge  from  her  side. 

"  Let's  go  now  and  get  something  to  drink,"  he 
said. 

She  mechanically  took  his  arm;  and  her  hand 
trembled  on  the  sleeve  of  his  dress-coat.  He 
pushed  his  way  with  her  through  the  crowd;  they 
passed  Urania  and  De  Breuil.  Urania  said  some- 
thing which  Cornelie  did  not  catch.  The  refresh- 
ment-room also  was  chock-full  and  buzzed  with  loud, 
laughing  voices.  Behind  the  long  tables  stood  the 
butler,  like  a  minister,  supervising  the  whole  service. 
There  was  no  crowding,  no  fighting  for  a  glass  of 
wine  or  a  sandwich.  People  waited  until  a  footman 
brought  it  on  a  tray. 

"  It's  very  well  managed,"  said  Brox.  "  Do  you 
do  all  this?" 

"  No,  it's  been  done  like  this  for  years.  .  .  ." 


THE  INEVITABLE  265 

She  dropped  into  a  chair,  looking  very  pale. 

;t  What  will  you  have?  " 

"  A  glass  of  champagne." 

"  I'm  hungry.  I  had  a  bad  dinner  at  my  hotel. 
I  must  have  something  to  eat." 

He  ordered  the  champagne  for  her.  He  ate  first 
a  patty,  then  another,  then  a  chdteaubriant  and  peas. 
He  drank  two  glasses  of  claret,  followed  by  a  glass 
of  champagne.  The  footman  brought  him  every- 
thing, dish  by  dish,  on  a  silver  tray.  His  hand- 
some, virile  face  was  brick-red  in  colour  with  health 
and  animal  strength.  The  stiff  hair  on  his  round, 
heavy  skull  was  cropped  quite  close.  His  large  grey 
eyes  were  bright  and  laughing,  with  a  straight,  im- 
pudent glance.  A  heavy,  well-tended  moustache 
curled  over  his  mouth,  in  which  the  white  teeth 

f learned.  He  stood  with  his  legs  slightly  astraddle, 
rm  and  soldierly  in  his  dress-coat,  which  he  wore 
with  an  easy  correctness.  He  ate  slowly  and  with 
relish,  enjoying  his  good  glass  of  fine  wine. 

Mechanically  she  now  watched  him,  from  her 
chair.  She  had  drunk  a  glass  of  champagne  and 
asked  for  another;  and  the  stimulant  revived  her. 
Her  cheeks  recovered  some  of  their  colour;  her 
eyes  sparkled.* 

"  They  do  you  damn  well  here,"  he  said,  coming 
up  to  her  with  his  glass  in  his  hand. 

And  he  emptied  his  glass. 

"  They  are  going  to  dance  the  pavane  almost  at 
once,"  she  murmured. 

And  they  passed  through  the  crowded  rooms,  to 
a  big  corridor  outside,  which  looked  like  an  avenue 
of  camellia-shrubs.  They  were  alone  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  This  is  where  the  dancers  are  to  meet." 

"  Then  let's  wait  for  them.  It's  nice  and  cool 
out  here." 


266  THE  INEVITABLE 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench. 

"Are   you    feeling   better?"    he    asked.     "You 
were  so  queer  in  the  ball-room." 
4  Yes,  I'm  better." 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  fun  to  meet  your  old  hus- 
band again?  " 

"  Rudolph,  I  don't  understand  how  you  can  talk 
to  me  like  that  and  persecute  me  and  tease  me  .  .  . 
after  everything  that  has  happened.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  well,  all  that  has  happened  and  is  done 
with!" 

"  Do  you  think  it's  discreet  on  your  part  ...  or 
delicate?  " 

u  No,  neither  discreet  nor  delicate.  Those,  you 
know,  are  things  I've  never  been:  you  used  to  fling 
that  in  my  face  often  enough,  in  the  old  days.  But, 
if  it's  not  delicate,  it's  amusing.  Have  you  lost 
your  sense  of  humour?  It's  damn  jolly  humorous, 
our  meeting  here.  .  .  .  And  now  listen  to  me. 
You  and  I  are  divorced.  All  right.  That's  so  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law.  But  a  legal  divorce  is  a  matter 
of  law  and  form,  for  the  benefit  of  society.  As  re- 
gards money  affairs  and  so  on.  We've  been  too 
much  husband  and  wife  not  to  feel  something  fpr 
each  other  at  a  later  meeting,  such  as  this.  Yes, 
yes,  I  know  what  you  want  to  say.  It's  simply  un- 
true. You  have  been  too  much  in  love  with  me  and 
I  with  ycu  for  everything  between  us  to  be  dead.  I 
remember  everything  still.  And  you  must  do  the 
same.  Do  you  remember  when  .  .  .  ?  " 

He  laughed,  pushed  nearer  to  her  and  whispered 
close  in  her  ear.  She  felt  his  breath  thrilling  on  her 
flesh  like  a  warm  breeze.  She  flushed  crimson  with 
nervous  distress.  And  she  felt  with  her  whole  body 
that  he  had  been  her  husband  and  that  he  had  en- 
tered into  her  very  blood.  His  voice  ran  like 
molten  bronze,  along  her  nerves  of  hearing,  deep 


THE  INEVITABLE  267 

down  within  her.  She  knew  him  through  and 
through.  She  knew  his  eyes,  his  mouth.  She  knew 
his  broad,  well-kept  hands,  with  the  large  round 
nails  and  the  darlc  signet-ring,  as  they  lay  on  his 
knees,  which  showed  square  and  powerful  under  the 
crease  in  his  dress-trousers.  And  she  felt,  like  a 
sudden  despair,  that  she  knew  and  felt  him  in  her 
whole  body.  However  rough  he  might  have  been 
to  her  in  the  old  days,  however  much  he  had  ill- 
treated  her,  striking  her  with  his  clenched  fist,  bang- 
ing her  against  the  wall  .  .  .  she  had  been  his  wife. 
She,  a  virgin,  had  become  his  wife,  had  been  ini- 
tiated into  womanhood  by  him.  And  she  felt  that 
he  had  branded  her  as  his  own,  she  felt  it  in  her 
blood  and  in  the  marrow  of  her  bones.  She  con- 
fessed to  herself  that  she  had  never  forgotten  him. 
During  the  first  lonely  days  in  Rome,  she  had  longed 
for  his  kisses,  she  had  thought  of  him,  had  con- 
jured up  his  virile  image  before  her  mind,  had 
persuaded  herself  to  believe  that,  by  exercising  tact 
and  patience  and  a  little  management,  she  could 
have  remained  his  wife.  .  .  . 

Then  the  great  happiness  had  come,  the  gentle 
happiness  of  perfect  harmony!  .  .  . 

It  all  flashed  through  her  like  lightning. 

Oh,  in  that  great,  gentle  happiness  she  had  been 
able  to  forget  everything,  she  had  not  felt  the  past 
within  her  1  But  she  now  felt  that  the  past  always 
remained,  irrevocably  and  indelibly.  She  had  been 
his  wife  and  she  held  him  still  in  her  blood.  She 
felt  it  now  with  every  breath  that  she  drew.  She 
was  indignant  because  he  dared  to  whisper  about 
the  old  days,  in  her  ear;  but  it  had  all  been  as  he 
said,  irrevocably,  indelibly. 

"  Rudolph !  "  she  entreated,  clasping  her  hands 
together.  "  Spare  me !  " 

She  almost  screamed  it,  in  a  cry  of  fear  and 


268  THE  INEVITABLE 

despair.  But  he  laughed  and  with  one  hand  seized 
both  hers,  clasped  in  entreaty: 

"  If  you  go  on  like  that,  if  you  look  at  me  so  be- 
seechingly with  those  beautiful  eyes,  I  won't  spare 
you  even  here  and  I'll  kiss  you  until  .  .  ." 

His  words  swept  over  her  like  a  scorching  wind. 
But  laughing  voices  approached;  and  two  girls  and 
two  young  men,  dressed  up,  for  the  pavane,  as 
Henri  IV.  and  Marguerite  de  Valois,  came  running 
down  the  stairs : 

"What's  become  of  the  others?"  they  cried, 
looking  round  in  the  staircase. 

And  they  came  dancing  up  to  Cornelie.  The 
ballet-master  also  approached.  She  did  not  under- 
stand what  he  said: 

"Where  are  the  others?"  she  repeated,  me- 
chanically, in  a  hoarse  voice. 

"  Here  they  come.  .  .  .  Now  we're  all  there.  .  .  ." 

They  were  all  talking  and  laughing  and  glittering 
and  buzzing  about  her.  She  summoned  up  all  her 
poor  strength  and  issued  a  few  instructions.  The 
guests  streamed  into  the  great  ball-room,  sat  down 
in  the  front  chairs,  crowded  together  in  the  corners. 
The  pavane  was  danced  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
to  an  old  trailing  melody:  a  long,  winding  curve  of 
graceful  steps,  deep  bows  and  satin  gleaming  with 
sudden  lustre  like  that  of  porcelain  .  .  .  with  the 
occasional  flutter  of  a  cape  .  .  .  and  a  flash  of  light 
on  a  rapier.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

"  Urania,  I  beseech  you,  help  me !  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Come  with  me.  .  .  ." 

She  had  seized  Urania  by  the  hand  and  dragged 
her  away  from  De  Breuil  into  one  of  the  deserted 
rooms.  The  suite  of  rooms  was  almost  entirely 
deserted;  the  dense  throng  of  guests  stood  packed 
along  the  sides  of  the  great  ball-room  to  watch  the 
pavane. 

"What  is  it,  Cornelie?;' 

Cornelie  was  trembling  in  every  limb  and  clutch- 
ing Urania's  arm.  She  drew  her  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room.  There  was  no  one  there. 

"  Urania,"  she  entreated,  in  a  supreme  crisis  of 
nervousness,  "help  me!  What  am  I  to  do?  I 
have  met  him  unexpectedly.  Don't  you  know  whom 
I  mean?  My  husband.  Hy  divorced  husband.  I 
had  seen  him  once  or  twice  before,  in  the  street  and 
on  the  Jetee.  The  time  when  I  was  so  startled,  you 
know,  when  I  almost  fainted:  that  was  because  of 
him.  And  he  has  been  talking  to  me  now,  here,  a 
moment  ago.  And  I'm  afraid  of  him.  He  spoke 
quite  nicely,  said  he  wanted  to  talk  to  me.  It  was 
so  strange.  Eveiything  was  finished  between  us. 
We  were  divorced.  And  suddenly  I  meet  him  and 
he  speaks  to  me  and  asks  me  what  sort  of  time  I 
have  had,  tells  me  tjiat  I  am  looking  well,  that  I 
have  grown  beautiful.  Tell  me,  Urania,  what  I  am 
to  do.  I'm  frightened.  I'm  ill  with  anxiety.  I 
want  to  get  away.  I  should  like  best  to  go  away  at 

269 


270  THE  INEVITABLE 

once,  to  Florence,  to  Duco.  I  am  so  frightened, 
Urania.  I  want  to  go  to  my  room.  Tell  Mrs. 
Uxeley  that  I  want  to  go  to  my  room." 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  The 
words  fell  incoherently  from  her  lips,  as  in  a  fever. 
Men's  voices  approached.  They  were  those  of 
Gilio,  De  Breuil,  the  Duke  di  Luca  and  the  young 
journalists,  the  two  who  were  pushing  their  way  into 
society. 

"  What  is  the  Signora  de  Retz  doing?  "  asked 
the  duke.  "  We  are  missing  her  everywhere." 

And  the  young  journalists,  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  these  eminent  noblemen,  confirmed  the  state- 
ment :  they  had  been  missing  her  everywhere. 

"  Fetch  Mrs.  Uxeley  here,"  Urania  whispered  to 
Gilio.  "  Cornelie  is  ill,  I  think.  I  can't  leave  her 
here  alone.  She  wants  to  go  to  her  room.  It's 
better  that  Mrs.  Uxeley  should  know,  else  she  might 
be  angry." 

Cornelie  was  jesting  nervously,  in  feverish  gaiety, 
with  the  duke  and  with  De  Breuil  and  the  journal- 
ists. 

"  Would  you  rather  I  took  you  straight  to  Mrs. 
Uxeley?  "  Gilio  whispered. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  my  room !  "  she  whispered,  in  a 
voice  of  entreaty,  behind  her  fan. 

The  pavane  appeared  to  be  over.  The  buzz  of 
voices  reached  them,  as  though  the  guests  were 
scattering  about  the  rooms  again: 

"  I  see  Mrs.  Uxeley,"  said  Gilio. 

He  went  up  to  her,  spoke  to  her.  She  simpered 
at  first,  leaning  on  the  gold  knob  of  her  cane. 
Then  her  wrinkles  became  angrily  contracted.  She 
crossed  the  room.  Cornelie  went  on  jesting  with 
the  duke;  the  journalists  thought  every  word 
witty. 

"Aren't  you  well?"  whispered  Mrs.  Uxeley,  go- 


THE  INEVITABLE  271 

ing  up  to  her,  ruffled.     "  What  about  the  cotillon?  " 

"  I  will  see  to  everything,  Mrs.  Uxeley,"  said 
Urania. 

"Impossible,  dear  princess;  and  I  shouldn't 
dream  of  letting  you  either." 

"  Introduce  me  to  your  friend,  Cornelie !  "  said  a 
deep  voice  behind  Cornelie. 

She  felt  that  voice  like  bronze  inside  her  body. 
She  turned  round  automatically.  It  was  he.  She 
seemed  unable  to  escape  him.  And,  under  his 
glance,  as  though  hypnotized,  she  appeared,  very 
strangely,  to  recover  her  strength.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  were  willing  her  not  to  be  ill.  She  mur- 
mured: 

"  Urania,  may  I  introduce  ...  a  fellow-coun- 
tryman? .  .  .  Baron  Brox.  .  .  .  Princess  di  Forte- 
Braccio.  .  .  ." 

Urania  knew  his  name,  knew  who  he  was : 

"  Darling,"  she  whispered  to  Cornelie,  "  let  me 
take  you  to  your  room.  I'll  see  to  everything." 

"  It's  no  longer  necessary,"  she  said.     "  I'm  much 
better.     I  only  want  a  glass  of  champagne.     I  am. 
much  better,  Mrs.  Uxeley." 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  ?  "  asked  Ru- 
dolph Brox,  with  his  smile  and  his  eyes  in  Cornelie's 
eyes. 

She  smiled  and  said  the  first  thing  that  came  into 
her  head. 

"  The  dancing  has  begun,"  said  Mrs.  Uxeley. 
"  But  who's  going  to  lead  my  cotillon  presently?  " 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  service,  Mrs.  Uxeley,"  said 
Brox,  "  I  have  some  little  talent  as  a  cotillon- 
leader." 

Mrs.  Uxeley  was  delighted.  It  was  arranged 
that  De  Breuil  and  Urania,  Gilio  and  the  Countess 
Costi  and  Brox  and  Cornelie  should  lead  the  figures 
in  turns. 


272  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  You  poor  darling !  "  Urania  said  in  Cornelie's 
ear.  "  Can  you  manage  it?  " 

Cornelie  smiled: 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'm  all  right  again,"  she  whispered. 

And  she  moved  towards  the  ball-room  on  Brox's 
arm.  Urania  stared  after  her  in  amazement. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  Cornelie  woke  that 
morning.  The  sun  was  piercing  the  golden  slit  in 
the  half-parted  curtains  with  tiny  eddying  atoms. 
She  felt  dog-tired.  She  remembered  that  Mrs. 
Uxeley,  on  the  morning  after  one  of  these  parties, 
left  her  free  to  rest:  the  old  lady  herself  stayed  in 
bed,  although  she  did  not  sleep.  And  Cornelie 
lacked  the  smallest  capacity  to  rise.  She  remained 
lying  where  she  was,  heavy  with  fatigue.  Her  eyes 
wandered  through  the  untidy  room;  her  handsome 
ball-dress,  hanging  listlessly,  limply  over  a  chair,  at 
once  reminded  her  of  yesterday.  For  that  matter, 
everything  in  her  was  thinking  of  yesterday,  every- 
thing in  her  was  thinking  of  her  husband,  with  a 
tense,  hypnotized  consciousness.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  recovering  from  a  nightmare,  a  bout  of 
drunkenness,  a  swoon.  It  was  only  by  drinking 
glass  after  glass  of  champagne  that  she  had  been 
able  to  keep  going,  had  been  able  to  dance  with 
Brox,  had  been  able  to  lead  the  figure  when  their 
turn  came.  But  it  was  not  only  the  champagne. 
His  eyes  also  had  held  her  up,  had  prevented  her 
from  fainting,  from  bursting  into  sobs,  from  scream- 
ing and  waving  her  arms  like  a  madwoman.  When 
he  had  taken  his  leave,  when  everybody  had  gone, 
she  had  collapsed  in  a  heap  and  been  taken  to  bed. 
The  moment  she  was  no  longer  under  his  eyes,  she 
had  felt  her  misery  and  her  weakness;  and  the  cham- 
pagne had  as  it  were  suddenly  clouded  her  brain. 

Now  she  lay  thinking  of  him  in  the  dejected  slack- 
273 


274  THE  INEVITABLE 

ness  of  her  overwhelming  morning  fatigue.  And  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  her  whole  Italian  year  had  been 
an  interlude,  a  dream.  She  saw  herself  at  the 
Hague  again,  with  her  pretty  little  face  and  her 
little  flirting  ways  and  her  phrases  always  to  the 
point.  She  saw  their  first  meetings  and  how  she 
had  at  once  fallen  under  his  influence  and  been  un-, 
able  to  flirt  with  him,  because  he  laughed  at  her  lit- 
tle feminine  defences.  He  had  been  too  strong  for 
her  from  the  first.  Then  came  their  engagement. 
He  laid  down  the  law  and  she  rebelled,  angrily,  with 
violent  scenes,  not  wishing  to  be  controlled,  injured 
in  her  pride  as  a  girl  who  had  always  been  spoiled 
and  made  much  of.  And  then  he  subdued  her  as 
though  with  the  rude  strength  of  his  fist  —  and 
always  with  a  laugh  on  his  handsome  mouth  —  until 
they  were  married,  until  she  created  a  scandal  and 
ran  away.  He  had  refused  to  be  divorced  at  first, 
but  had  consented  later,  because  of  the  scandal. 
She  had  freed  herself,  she  had  fled!  .  .  . 

The  feminist  movement,  Italy,  Duco.  .  .  .  Was 
it  a  dream?  Was  the  great  happiness,  the  delight- 
ful harmony,  a  dream  and  was  she  awaking  after  a 
year  of  dreams?  Was  she  divorced  or  was  she 
not?  She  had  to  make  an  effort  to  remember  the 
formalities:  yes,  they  were  legally  divorced.  But 
was  she  divorced,  was  everything  over  between 
them  ?  And  was  she  really  no  longer  his  wife  ? 

Why  had  he  done  it,  why  had  he  pursued  her 
after  seeing  her  once  at  Nice?  Oh,  he  had  told 
her,  during  that  cotillon,  that  endless  cotillon !  He 
had  become  proud  of  her  when  he  saw  how  beauti- 
ful she  was  and  how  smart,  how  happy  she  looked 
driving  in  Mrs.  Uxeley's  or  the  princess'  elegant 
victoria;  it  was  then  that  he  had  seen  her,  beautiful, 
smart  and  happy;  and  he  had  grown  jealous.  She, 
a  beautiful  woman,  had  been  his  wife !  He  felt  that 


THE  INEVITABLE  275 

he  had  a  right  to  her,  notwithstanding  the  law. 
What  was  the  law?  Had  the  law  taught  her 
womanhood  or  had  he?  And  he  had  made  her 
feel  his  right,  together  with  the  irrevocable  past. 
It  was  all  irrevocable  and  indelible.  .  .  . 

She  looked  about  her,  at  her  wits'  end  what  to  do. 
And  she  began  to  weep,  to  sob.  Then  she  felt 
something  gaining  strength  within  her,  the  instinct- 
ive rebellion  that  leapt  up  within  her  like  a  spring 
which  had  at  length  recovered  its  resilience,  now 
that  she  was  resting  and  no  longer  under  his  eyes. 
She  would  not.  She  would  not.  She  refused  to 
feel  him  in  her  blood.  Should  she  meet  him  once 
more,  she  would  speak  to  him  calmly,  very  curtly, 
and  order  him  to  leave  her,  show  him  the  door, 
have  him  put  out  of  the  door.  .  .  .  She  clenched 
her  fists  with  rage.  She  hated  him.  She  thought 
of  Duco.  .  .  .  And  she  thought  of  writing  to  him, 
telling  him  everything.  And  she  thought  of  going 
back  to  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  was  not  a 
dream,  he  existed,  even  though  he  was  living  so  far 
away,  at  Florence.  She  had  saved  a  little  money, 
they  would  find  their  happiness  again  in  the  studio 
in  Rome.  She  would  write  to  him;  and  she  wanted 
to  get  away  as  quickly  as  possible.  With  Duco  she 
would  be  safe.  Oh,  how  she  longed  for  him,  to 
lie  so  softly  and  quietly  and  blissfully  in  his  arms, 
against  his  breast,  as  in  the  embrace  of  a  miraculous 
happiness !  Was  it  all  true,  their  happiness,  their 
love  and  harmony?  Yes,  it  had  existed,  it  was  not 
a  dream.  There  was  his  photograph;  there,  on  the 
wall,  were  two  of  his  water-colours  —  the  sea  at 
Sorrento  and  the  skies  over  Amalfi  —  done  in  those 
days  which  had  been  like  poems.  She  would  be 
safer  with  him.  When  she  was  with  Duco,  she 
would  not  feel  Rudolph,  her  husband,  in  her  blood. 
For  she  felt  Duco  in  her  soul;  and  her  soul  would  be 


276  THE  INEVITABLE 

the  stronger!  She  would  feel  Duco  in  her  soul,  in 
her  heart,  in  all  the  most  fervent  part  of  her  life 
and  gather  from  him  her  uppermost  strength,  like  a 
sheaf  of  gleaming  sword-blades!  Already  now, 
when  she  thought  of  him  with  such  longing,  she  felt 
herself  growing  stronger.  She  could  have  spoken 
to  Brox  now.  Yesterday  he  had  taken  her  by  sur- 
prise, had  squeezed  her  between  himself  and  that 
looking-glass,  till  she  had  seen  him  doubk  and  lost 
her  wits  and  been  defeated.  That  would  never 
happen  again.  That  was  only  due  to  the  surprise. 
If  she  spoke  to  him  again  now,  she  would  triumph, 
thanks  to  what  she  had  learnt  as  a  woman  who  stood 
on  her  own  feet. 

And  she  got  up  and  opened  the  windows  and  put 
on  her  dressing-gown.  She  looked  at  the  blue  sea, 
at  the  motley  traffic  on  the  Promenade.  And  she 
sat  down  and  wrote  to  Duco.  She  told  him  every- 
thing: her  first  startled  meeting,  her  surprise  and 
defeat  at  the  ball.  Her  pen  flew  over  the  paper. 
She  did  not  hear  the  knock  at  the  door,  did  not  hear 
Urania  come  in  carefully,  fearing  lest  she  should 
still  be  asleep  and  anxious  to  know  how  she  felt. 
Excitedly  she  read  out  part  of  her  letter  and  said 
that  she  was  ashamed  of  her  weakness  of  yesterday. 
How  she  could  have  behaved  like  that  she  herself 
was  unable  to  understand. 

No,  she  herself  could  not  understand  it.  Now 
that  she  felt  somewhat  rested  and  was  speaking  to 
Urania,  who  reminded  her  of  Rome,  and  holding 
her  long  letter  to  Duco  in  her  hand  .  .  .  now  she 
herself  did  not  understand  it  all  and  wondered 
which  had  been  a  dream:  her  Italian  year  of  happi- 
ness or  that  nightmare  of  yesterday.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  L 

She  stayed  at  home  for  a  day,  feeling  tired  and, 
deep  down  within  herself,  almost  unconsciously, 
afraid,  in  spite  of  all,  of  meeting  him.  But  Mrs. 
Uxeley,  who  would  never  hear  of  illness  or  fatigue, 
was  so  much  put  out  that  Cornelie  accompanied  her 
next  day  to  the  Promenade  des  Anglais.  Friends 
came  up  to  talk  to  them  and  gathered  round  their 
chairs,  with  Rudolph  Brox  among  them.  But  Cor- 
nelie avoided  any  confidential  conversation. 

Some  days  later,  however,  he  called  on  Mrs. 
Uxeley's  at-home  day;  and,  amid  the  crowd  of  vi- 
sitors paying  duty-calls  after  the  party,  he  was  able 
to  speak  to  her  for  a  moment  alone.  He  came  up 
to  her  with  that  laugh  of  his,  as  though  his  eyes 
were  laughing,  as  though  his  moustache  were  laugh- 
ing. And  she  collected  all  her  thoughts,  so  that  she 
might  be  firm  with  him: 

"  Rudolph,"  she  said,  loftily,  "  it  is  simply  ridicu- 
lous. If  you  don't  think  it  indelicate,  you  might  at 
least  try  to  think  it  ridiculous.  It  tickles  your  sense 
of  humour,  but  imagine  what  people  would  say  about 
it  in  Holland !  .  .  .  The  other  evening,  at  the  party, 
you  took  me  by  surprise  and  somehow  —  I  really 
don't  know  how  it  happened  —  I  yielded  to  your 
strange  wish  to  dance  with  me  and  to  lead  the  co- 
tillon. I  frankly  confess,  I  was  confused.  I  now 
see  everything  clearly  and  plainly  and  I  tell  you 
this :  I  refuse  to  meet  you  again.  I  refuse  to  speak 
to  you  again.  I  refuse  to  turn  the  solemn  earnest 
of  our  divorce  into  a  farce." 

"  If  you  look  back,"  he  said,  "  you  will  recollect 
277 


278  THE  INEVITABLE 

that  you  never  got  anything  out  of  me  with  that  lofty 
tone  and  those  dignified  airs,  but  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, you  just  stimulate  me  to  do  what  you  don't 
want.  .  .  ." 

"  If  that  is  so,  I  shall  simply  tell  Mrs.  Uxeley  in 
what  relation  I  stand  to  you  and  ask  her  to  forbid 
you  her  house." 

He  laughed.     She  lost  her  temper: 

"  Do  you  intend  to  behave  like  a  gentleman  or 
like  a  cad?" 

He  turned  red  and  clenched  his  fists: 

"  Curse  you !  "  he  hissed,  in  his  moustache. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hit  me  and  knock  me 
about?  "  she  continued,  scornfully. 

He  mastered  himself. 

"  We  are  in  a  room  full  of  people,"  she  sneered, 
defiantly.  "  What  if  we  were  alone  ?  You've 
already  clenched  your  fists !  You  would  thrash  me 
as  you  did  before.  You  brute !  You  brute !  " 

"  And  you  are  very  brave  in  this  room  full  of 
people !  "  he  laughed,  with  his  laugh  which  incited 
her  to  rage,  when  it  did  not  subdue  her.  "  No,  I 
shouldn't  thrash  you,"  he  continued.  "  I  should 
kiss  you." 

"  This  is  the  last  time  you're  going  to  speak  to 
me !  "  she  hissed  furiously.  "  Go  away!  Go  away  I 
Or  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,  I  shall  make  a 


scene." 


He  sat  down  calmly : 
.   "  As  you  please,"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  stood  trembling  before  him,  impotent.  Some 
one  spoke  to  her;  the  footman  handed  her  some  tea. 
She  was  now  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  men;  and, 
mastering  herself,  she  jested,  with  loud,  nervous 
gaiety,  flirted  more  coquettishly  than  ever.  There 
was  a  little  court  around  her,  with  the  Duke  di  Luca 
as  its  ring-leader.  Close  by,  Rudolph  Brox  sat 


THE  INEVITABLE  279 

drinking  his  tea,  with  apparent  calmness,  as  though 
waiting.  But  his  strong,  masterful  blood  was  boil- 
ing madly  within  him.  He  could  have  murdered 
her  and  he  was  seeing  red  with  jealousy.  That 
woman  was  his,  despite  the  law.  He  was  not  going 
to  be  afraid  of  any  more  scandal.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, she  was  as  he  wished  her  to  be  and  he  wanted 
her,  his  wife.  He  knew  how  he  would  win  her 
back;  and  this  time  he  would  not  lose  her,  this  time 
she  should  be  his,  for  as  long  as  he  wished. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  speak  to  her  unheard, 
he  came  up  to  her  again.  She  was  just  going  to 
Urania,  whom  she  saw  sitting  with  Mrs.  Uxeley, 
when  he  said  in  her  ear,  sternly  and  abruptly: 

"  Cornelie  .  .   ." 

She  turned  round  mechanically,  but  with  her 
haughty  glance.  She  would  rather  have  gone  on, 
but  could  not:  something  held  her  back,  a  secret 
strength,  a  secret  superiority,  which  sounded  in  his 
voice  and  flowed  into  her  with  a  weight  as  of  bronze 
that  weakened  and  paralysed  her  energy. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone." 

"  No." 

"  Yes.  Listen  to  me  calmly  for  a  moment,  if 
you  can.  I  am  calm  too,  as  you  see.  You  needn't 
be  afraid  of  me.  I  promise  not  to  ill-treat  you 
or  even  to  swear  at  you.  But  I  must  speak  to  you, 
alone.  After  our  meeting,  after  the  ball  last  week, 
we  can't  part  like  this.  You  are  not  even  entitled 
to  show  me  the  door,  after  talking  to  me  and  dan- 
cing with  me  so  recently.  There's  no  reason  and  no 
logic  in  it.  You  lost  your  temper.  But  let  us  both 
keep  our  tempers  now.  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  .  .  ." 

"I  can't:  Mrs.  Uxeley  doesn't  like  me  to  leave 
the  drawing-room  when  there  are  people  here.  I 
am  dependent  on  her." 


28o  THE  INEVITABLE 

He  laughed: 

'  You  are  almost  even  more  dependent  on  her 
than  you  used  to  be  on  me!  But  you  can  give  me 
just  a  second,  in  the  next  room." 

"  No." 

1  Yes,  you  can." 

1  What  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me  about?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  here." 

"  I  can't  speak  to  you  alone." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is:  you're  afraid  to." 

"  No." 

"  Yes,  you  are :  you're  afraid  of  me.  With  all 
your  airs  and  your  dignity,  you're  afraid  to  be  alone 
with  me  for  a  moment." 

;'  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  You  are  afraid.  You're  shaking  in  your  shoes 
with  fear.  You  received  me  with  a  fine  speech 
which  you  rehearsed  in  advance.  Now  that  you've 
delivered  your  speech  .  .  .  it's  over  and  you're 
frightened." 

"  I  am  not  frightened." 

"  Then  come  with  me,  my  plucky  authoress  of 
The  Social  Position  of  the  What's-her-name!  I 
promise,  I  swear  that  I  shall  be  calm  and  tell  you 
calmly  what  I  have  to  say  to  you;  and  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honour  not  to  hit  you.  .  .  .  Which 
room  shall  we  go  to?  .  .  .  Do  you  refuse?  Listen 
to  me:  if  you  don't  come  with  me,  it's  not  finished 
yet.  If  you  do,  perhaps  it  will  be  finished  .  .  .  and 
you  will  never  see  me  again." 

"  What  can  you  have  to  say  to  me?  " 

"  Come." 

She  yielded  because  of  his  voice,  not  because  of 
his  words: 

"  But  only  for  three  minutes." 

"  Very  well,  three  minutes." 


THE  INEVITABLE  281 

She  took  him  into  the  passage  and  into  an  empty 
room: 

'Well  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  frightened. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  laughing  under 
his  moustache.  "  Don't  be  frightened.  I  only 
wanted  to  tell  you  .  .  .  that  you  are  my  wife.  Do 
you  understand  that?  Don't  try  to  deny  it.  I  felt 
it  at  the  ball  the  other  night,  when  I  had  my  arm 
round  you,  waltzing  with  you.  Don't  try  to  deny 
that  you  pressed  yourself  against  me  for  a  moment. 
You're  my  wife.  I  felt  it  then  and  I  feel  it  now. 
And  you  feel  it  too,  though  you  would  like  to  deny 
it.  But  that  won't  help  you.  What  has  been  can't 
be  altered;  and  what  has  been  .  .  .  always  remains 
part  of  you.  There,  you  can't  say  that  I  am  not 
speaking  prettily  and  delicately.  Not  an  oath,  not 
an  improper  word  has  escaped  my  lips.  For  I  don't 
want  to  make  you  angry.  I  only  want  to  make  you 
confess  that  what  I  say  is  true  and  that  you  are  still 
my  wife.  That  law  doesn't  signify.  It's  another 
law  that  rules  us.  It's  a  law  that  rules  you  espe- 
cially; a  law  which,  without  our  ever  suspecting  it, 
brings  us  together  again,  even  though  it  does  so  by  a 
very  strange,  roundabout  path,  along  which  you, 
especially,  have  strayed.  That  law  rules  you  espe- 
cially. I  am  convinced  that  you  still  love  me,  or  at 
least  that  you  are  still  in  love  with  me.  I  feel  it, 
I  know  it  as  a  fact:  don't  try  to  deny  it.  It's  no 
use,  Cornelie.  And  I'll  tell  you  something  besides: 
I  am  in  love  with  you  too  and  more  so  than  ever.  I 
feel  it  when  you're  flirting  with  those  fellows.  I 
could  wring  your  neck  then,  I  could  break  every 
bone  in  their  bodies.  .  .  .  Don't  be  afraid:  I'm  not 
going  to;  I'm  not  in  a  temper.  I  just  wanted  to 
talk  to  you  calmly  and  make  you  see  the  truth.  Do 
you  see  it  before  you?  It  is  in-con-tro-ver-tible. 


282  THE  INEVITABLE 

You  see,  you  have  nothing  to  say  in  reply.  Facts 
are  facts.  .  .  .  Will  you  show  me  the  door  now? 
Do  you  still  propose  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Uxeley?  I 
shouldn't,  if  I  were  you.  Your  friend,  the  princess, 
knows  who  I  am:  leave  it  at  that.  Had  the  old 
woman  never  heard  my  name,  or  has  she  forgotten 
it?  Forgotten  it,  I  expect.  Well,  then,  don't 
trouble  to  refresh  her  ancient  memory.  Leave 
things  as  they  are.  It's  better  to  say  nothing.  No, 
the  position  is  not  ridiculous  and  it's  not  humorous 
either.  It  has  become  very  serious:  the  truth  is 
always  serious.  It  is  strange,  I  admit:  I  should 
never  have  expected  it.  It's  a  revelation  to  me  as 
well.  .  .  .  And  now  I've  said  what  I  had  to  say. 
Less  than  five  minutes  by  my  watch.  They  will 
hardly  have  noticed  your  absence  in  the  drawing- 
room.  And  now  I'm  going;  but  first  give  your  hus- 
band a  kiss,  for  I  am  your  husband  .  .  .  and  always 
shall  be." 

She  stood  trembling  before  him.  It  was  his  voice, 
which  fell  like  molten  bronze  into  her  soul,  into  her 
body,  and  lamed  and  paralysed  her.  It  was  his  voice 
of  persuasion,  of  persuasive  charm,  the  voice  which 
she  knew  of  old,  the  voice  that  compelled  her  to  do 
everything  that  he  wanted.  Under  the  influence  of 
that  voice  she  became  a  thing,  a  chattel,  something 
that  belonged  to  him,  once  he  had  branded  her  for 
ever  as  his  mate.  She  was  powerless  to  cast  him 
out  of  herself,  to  shake  him  from  herself,  to  erase 
from  herself  the  stamp  of  his  possession  and  the 
brand  which  marked  her  as  his  property.  She  was 
his;  and  anything  that  otherwise  was  herself  had 
left  her.  There  was  no  longer  in  her  brain  either 
memory  or  thought.  .  .  . 

She  saw  him  come  up  to  her  and  put  his  arm 
around  her.  He  took  her  to  his  breast  slowly  but 
so  firmly  that  he  seemed  to  be  taking  possession  of 


THE  INEVITABLE  283 

her  entirely.  She  felt  herself  melting  away  in  his 
arms  as  in  a  scorching  flame.  On  her  lips  she  felt  his 
mouth,  his  moustache,  pressing,  pressing,  pressing, 
until  she  closed  her  eyes,  half-fainting.  He  said 
something  more  in  her  ear,  with  that  voice  under 
which  she  seemed  not  to  count,  as  though  she  were 
nothing,  as  though  she  existed  only  through  him. 
When  he  released  her,  she  staggered  on  her  feet. 

"  Come,  pull  yourself  together,"  she  heard  him 
say,  calmly,  authoritatively,  omnipotently.  "  And 
accept  the  position.  Things  are  as  they  are. 
There's  no  altering  them.  Thank  you  for  letting 
me  speak  to  you.  Everything  is  all  right  between 
us  now:  I'm  sure  of  it.  And  now  au  revoir.  Au 
revoir.  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her  again : 

"  Give  me  a  kiss  too,"  he  said,  with  that  voice  of 
his. 

She  flung  her  arm  round  his  body  and  kissed  him 
on  the  lips. 

"  Au  revoir"  he  said,  once  more. 

She  saw  him  laugh  under  his  moustache ;  his  eyes 
laughed  at  her  with  flames  of  gold;  and  he  went 
away.  She  heard  his  feet  going  down  the  stairs 
and  ringing  on  the  marble  of  the  hall,  with  the 
strength  of  his  firm  tread.  .  .  .  She  remained  stand- 
ing as  though  bereft  of  life.  In  the  drawing-room, 
next  to  the  room  in  which  she  was,  the  hum  of  laugh- 
ing voices  sounded  loudly.  She  saw  Rome  before 
her,  saw  Duco,  in  a  short  flash  of  lightning.  .  .  . 
It  was  gone.  .  .  .  And,  collapsing  into  a  chair,  she 
uttered  a  suppressed  cry  of  despair,  put  her  hands 
before  her  face  and  sobbed,  restraining  her  despair 
before  all  those  people,  dully,  as  from  a  stifling 
throat. 


CHAPTER  LI 

She  had  but  one  thought:  to  take  to  flight.  To 
fly  from  his  mastery,  to  fly  from  the  emanation  of 
that  dominion  which,  mysteriously  but  irrevocably, 
wiped  away  with  his  caress  all  that  was  in  her  of 
will,  energy  and  self.  She  remembered  having  felt 
the  same  thing  in  the  old  days :  rebellion  and  anger 
when  he  became  angry  and  coarse,  but  an  eclipse  of 
self  when  he  caressed  her;  an  inability  to  think  when 
he  merely  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head;  a  swooning 
away  into  a  vast  nothingness  when  he  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her.  She  had  felt  it  from  the 
first  time  of  seeing  him,  when  he  stood  before  her 
and  looked  down  upon  her  with  that  light  irony  in 
the  smile  of  his  eyes  and  his  moustache,  as  though 
he  took  pleasure  in  her  resistance  —  at  that  time 
prompted  by  flirting  and  fun,  soon  by  petulance, 
later  by  anger  and  fury  —  as  though  he  took  plea- 
sure in  her  futile  feminine  attempts  to  escape  his 
power.  He  had  at  once  realized  that  he  ruled  this 
woman.  And  she  had  found  in  him  her  master,  her 
sole  master.  For  no  other  man  pressed  down  upon 
her  with  that  empire  which  was  of  the  blood,  of  the 
flesh.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  usually  the  superior. 
She  had  about  her  a  cool  indifference  which  was 
always  provoking  her  to  destructive  criticism.  She 
had  a  need  for  fun,  for  cheerful  conversation,  for 
coquetry,  for  flirtation;  and,  always  a  mistress  of 
quick  repartee,  she  invited  the  occasion  for  repar- 
tee; but,  apart  from  this,  men  meant  little  to  her 
and  she  always  saw  the  absurd  side  of  each  of  them, 
thinking  this  one  too  short,  that  one  too  tall,  a  third 

284 


THE  INEVITABLE  285 

clumsy,  a  fourth  stupid,  finding  something  in  every 
one  of  them  to  rouse  her  laughter,  her  mockery  or 
her  criticism.  She  would  never  be  a  woman  to  give 
herself  to  many.  She  had  met  Duco  and  given  her- 
self to  him  with  her  love,  wholly,  as  one  great  in- 
separable golden  gift;  and  after  him  she  would 
never  fall  in  love  again.  But  before  Duco  she  had 
met  Rudolph  Brox.  Perhaps,  if  she  had  met  him 
after  Duco,  his  mastery  would  not  have  swayed  her. 
She  did  not  know.  And  what  was  the  good  of 
thinking  about  it.  The  thing  was  as  it  was.  In 
her  blood  she  was  not  a  woman  for  many;  in  her 
blood  she  was  the  wife,  the  spouse,  the  consort.  Of 
the  man  who  had  been  her  husband  she  was  in  her 
flesh  and  in  her  blood  the  wife;  and  she  was  his 
wife  even  without  love.  For  she  could  not  call  this 
love :  she  gave  the  name  of  love  only  to  that  other 
passion,  that  proud,  tender  and  intense  completion 
of  life's  harmony,  that  journey  along  one  golden 
line,  the  marriage  of  two  gleaming  lines.  .  .  .  But 
the  phantom  hands  had  risen  all  about  them  in  a 
cloud,  the  hands  had  mysteriously  and  inevitably  di- 
vided their  golden  line;  and  hers,  a  winding  curve, 
had  leapt  back,  like  a  quivering  spring,  crossing  a 
darker  line  of  former  days,  a  sombre  line  of  the 
past,  a  dark  track  full  of  unconscious  action  and 
fatal  bondage.  Oh,  the  strangeness,  the  most 
mysterious  strangeness  of  those  lines  of  life !  Why 
should  they  curl  back,  force  her  backwards  to  her 
original  starting-point?  Why  had  it  all  been  ne- 
cessary? 

She  had  but  one  thought:  to  take  to  flight.  She 
did  not  see  the  inevitability  of  those  lines  and  the 
fatality  of  those  paths  and  she  did  not  wish  to  feel 
the  pressure  of  the  phantom  hands  that  rose  about 
her.  To  fly,  to  turn  up  the  dusky  path,  back  to  the 
point  of  separation,  back  to  Duco,  and  with  him  to 


286  THE  INEVITABLE 

rebraid  and  twist  the  two  lost  directions  into  one 
pure  movement,  one  line  of  happiness!  .  .  . 

To  fly,  to  fly!  She  told  Urania  that  she  was 
going.  She  begged  Urania  to  forgive  her,  because 
it  was  she  who  had  recommended  her  to  the  old 
woman  whom  she  was  now  suddenly  leaving.  And 
she  told  Mrs.  Uxeley,  without  caring  for  her  anger, 
her  temper  or  her  words  of  abuse.  She  admitted 
that  she  was  ungrateful.  But  there  was  a  vital  ne- 
cessity which  compelled  her  sudddenly  to  leave  Nice. 
She  swore  that  it  existed.  She  swore  that  it  would 
mean  unhappiness,  even  ruin,  were  she  to  stay.  She 
explained  it  to  Urania  in  a  single  sentence.  But 
she  did  not  explain  it  to  the  old  woman  and  left  her 
in  an  impotent  fury  which  made  her  writhe  with 
rheumatic  aches  and  pains.  She  left  behind  her 
everything  that  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Uxeley, 
all  the  superfluous  wardrobe  of  her  dependence. 
She  put  on  an  old  frock.  She  went  to  the  station 
like  a  criminal,  trembling  lest  she  should  meet  him. 
But  she  knew  that  at  this  hour  he  was  always  at 
Monte  Carlo.  Nevertheless  she  went  in  a  closed 
cab  and  she  took  a  second-class  ticket  for  Florence. 
She  telegraphed  to  Duco.  And  she  fled. 

She  had  nothing  left  but  him.  She  could  never 
again  count  upon  Mrs.  Uxeley;  and  Urania  had 
behaved  coolly,  not  understanding  that  singular 
flight,  because  she  did  not  understand  the  simple 
truth,  Rudolph  Brox'  power.  She  thought  that 
Cornelie  was  making  things  difficult  for  herself.  In 
the  circle  in  which  Urania  lived,  her  sense  of  social 
morality  had  wavered  since  her  liaison  with  the 
Chevalier  de  Breuil.  Hearing  the  Italian  law  of 
love  whispered  all  around  her,  the  law  that  love  is  as 
simple  as  an  opening  rose,  she  did  not  understand 
Cornelie's  struggle.  She  no  longer  resented  any- 
thing that  Gilio  did;  and  he  in  his  turn  left  her  free. 


THE  INEVITABLE  287 

What  was  happening  to  Cornelie?  Surely  it  was  all 
very  simple,  if  she  was  still  fond  of  her  divorced 
husband!  Why  should  she  run  away  to  Duco  and 
make  herself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  all  their 
acquaintances?  And  so  she  had  parted  coolly  from 
Cornelie;  but  still  she  missed  her  friend.  She  was 
the  Princess  di  Forte-Braccio ;  and  lately,  on  her 
birthday,  Prince  Ercole  had  sent  her  a  great  eme- 
rald, out  of  the  carefully  kept  family- jewels,  as 
though  she  were  becoming  worthy  of  them  gradu- 
ally, stone  by  stone !  But  she  missed  Cornelie  and 
she  felt  lonely,  deadly  lonely,  notwithstanding  her 
emerald  and  her  lover.  .  .  . 

Cornelie  fled:  she  had  nothing  in  the  world  but 
Duco.  But  in  him  she  would  have  everything. 
And,  when  she  saw  him  at  Florence,  at  the  Santa 
Maria  Novella  Station,  she  flung  herself  on  his 
breast  and  clung  to  him  as  to  a  cross  of  redemption, 
a  saviour.  He  led  her  sobbing  to  a  cab;  and  they 
drove  to  his  room.  There  she  looked  round  her 
nervously,  done  up  with  the  overstrain  of  her  long 
journey,  thinking  every  minute  that  Rudolph  would 
come  after  her.  She  told  Duco  everything,  opened 
her  heart  to  him  entirely,  as  though  he  were  her 
conscience,  as  though  he  were  her  soul,  her  god. 
She  nestled  up  against  him,  she  told  him  that  he 
must  help  her.  It  was  as  though  she  were  praying 
to  him;  her  anguish  went  up  to  him  like  a  prayer. 
He  kissed  her;  and  she  knew  that  manner  of  com- 
forting, she  knew  that  tender  caressing.  She  sud- 
denly fell  against  him,  utterly  relaxed;  and  so  she 
continued  to  lie,  with  closed  eyes.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  sinking  in  a  lake,  in  a  blue  sacred  lake, 
mystic  as  the  Lake  of  San  Stefano  in  the  sleeping 
night,  powdered  with  stars.  And  she  heard  him 
say  that  he  would  help  her;  that  there  was  nothing 
in  her  fears;  that  that  man  had  no  power  over  her; 


288  THE  INEVITABLE 

i 

that  he  would  never  have  any  power  over  her,  if 
she  became  his,  Duco's,  wife.  She  looked  at  him 
and  did  not  understand  what  he  was  saying.  She 
looked  at  him  feverishly,  as  though  he  had  awa- 
kened her  suddenly  while  she  lay  sleeping  for  a  sec- 
ond in  the  blue  calmness  of  the  mystic  lake.  She 
did  not  understand,  but,  dead-tired,  she  hid  her  face 
against  his  arm  again  and  fell  asleep. 

She  was  dead-tired.  She  slept  for  two  hours 
immovably,  breathing  deeply,  upon  his  breast. 
When  he  shifted  his  arm,  she  just  moved  her  head 
heavily,  like  a  flower  on  a  weary  stalk,  but  she  slept 
on.  He  stroked  her  forehead,  her  hair;  and  she 
slept  on,  with  her  hand  in  his.  She  slept  as  if  she 
had  not  slept  for  days,  for  weeks. 


CHAPTER  LII 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  Cornelie," 
he  said,  convincingly.  '  That  man  has  no  power 
over  you  if  you  refuse,  if  you  refuse  with  a  firm 
will.  I  do  not  see  what  he  could  do.  You  are 
quite  free,  absolutely  released  from  him.  That  you 
ran  away  so  precipitately  was  certainly  not  wise :  it 
will  look  to  him  like  a  flight.  Why  did  you  not  tell 
him  calmly  that  he  can't  claim  any  rights  in  you? 
Why  did  you  not  say  that  you  loved  me?  If  need 
were,  you  could  have  said  that  we  were  engaged. 
How  can  you  have  been  so  weak  and  so  terrified? 
It's  not  like  you !  But,  now  that  you  are  here,  all 
is  well.  We  are  together  now.  Shall  we  go  back 
to  Rome  to-morrow  or  shall  we  remain  here  a  little 
first?  I  have  always  longed  to  show  you  Florence. 
Look,  there,  in  front  of  us,  is  the  Arno;  there  is 
the  Ponto  Vecchio;  there  is  the  Uffizi.  You've  been 
here  before,  but  you  didn't  know  Italy  then.  You'll 
enjoy  it  more  now.  Oh,  it  is  so  lovely  here!  Let 
us  stay  a  week  or  two  first.  I  have  a  little  money; 
you  need  have  no  fear.  And  life  is  cheaper  here 
than  in  Rome.  Living  in  this  room,  we  shall  spend 
hardly  anything.  I  have  light  enough  through  this 
window  to  sketch  by,  now  and  again.  Or  else  I  go 
and  work  in  the  San  Marco  or  in  San  Lorenzo  or 
up  on  San  Miniato.  It  is  delightfully  quiet  in  the 
cloisters.  There  are  a  few  excursionists  at  times; 
but  I  don't  mind  that.  And  you  can  go  with  me, 
with  a  book,  a  book  about  Florence;  I'll  tell  you 
what  to  read.  You  must  learn  to  know  Donatello, 
Brunelleschi,  Ghiberti,  but,  above  all,  Donatello. 
•  289 


29o  THE  INEVITABLE 

We  shall  see  him  in  the  Bargello.  And  Lippo 
Memmi's  Annunciation,  the  golden  Annunciation! 
You  shall  see  how  like  our  angel  is  to  it,  our  beauti- 
ful angel  of  happiness,  the  one  you  gave  me !  It  is 
so  rich  here;  we  shall  not  feel  that  we  are  poor. 
We  need  so  little.  Or  have  you  been  spoilt  by  your 
luxury  at  Nice  ?  But  I  know  you  so  well :  you  will 
forget  that  at  once;  and  we  shall  win  through  to- 
gether. And  presently  we  shall  go  back  to  Rome. 
But  this  time  .  .  .  married,  my  darling,  and  you 
belonging  to  me  entirely,  legally.  It  must  be  so 
now;  you  must  not  refuse  me  again.  We'll  go  to 
the  consul  to-morrow  and  ask  what  papers  we  want 
from  Holland  and  what  will  be  the  quickest  way  of 
getting  married.  And  meanwhile  you  must  look 
upon  yourself  as  my  wife.  Until  now  we  have  been 
very,  very  happy  .  .  .  but  you  were  not  my  wife. 
Once  you  feel  yourself  to  be  my  wife  —  even  though 
we  wait  another  fortnight  for  those  papers  to  sign 
—  you  will  feel  safe  and  peaceful.  There  is  no- 
body and  nothing  that  has  any  power  over  you. 
You're  not  well,  if  you  really  think  there  is.  And 
then  I'll  bet  you,  when  we  are  married,  my  mother 
will  make  it  up  with  us.  Everything  will  come 
right,  my  darling,  my  angel.  .  .  .  But  you  must  not 
refuse :  we  must  get  married  with  all  possible  speed." 
She  was  sitting  beside  him  on  a  sofa  and  staring 
out  of  doors,  where,  in  the  square  frame  of  the  tall 
window,  the  slender  campanile  rose  like  a  marble 
lily  between  the  dome-crowned  harmonies  of  the 
Cathedral  and  the  Battisterio,  while  on  one  side  the 
Palazzio  Vecchio  lay,  a  massive,  battlemented 
fortress,  amid  the  welter  of  the  streets  and  roofs, 
and  lifted  its  tower,  suddenly  expanding  into  the 
machicolated  summit,  with  Fiesole  and  the  hills 
shimmering  behind  it  in  the  purple  of  the  evening. 
The  noble  city  of  eternal  grace  gleamed  a  golden 


THE  INEVITABLE  291 

bronze   in   the   last  reflection   of   the   setting   sun. 

"  We  must  get  married  at  once  ?  "  she  repeated, 
with  a  doubting  interrogation. 

'  Yes,  as  soon  as  ever  we  can,  darling." 

"  But  Duco,  dearest  Duco,  it's  less  possible  now 
than  ever.  Don't  you  see  that  it  can't  be  done? 
It's  impossible,  impossible.  It  might  have  been 
possible  before,  some  months  ago,  a  year  ago  .  .  . 
perhaps,  perhaps  not  even  then.  Perhaps  it  was 
never  possible.  It  is  so  difficult  to  say.  But  now  it 
can't  be  done,  really  not.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  you  love  me  well  enough?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question?  How 
can  you  ask  me,  darling?  But  it's  not  that.  It  is 
...  it  is  ...  it  can't  be,  because  I  am  not  free." 

"Not  free?" 

"  I  am  not  free.  I  may  feel  free  later  ...  or 
perhaps  not,  perhaps  never.  .  .  .  My  dearest  Duco, 
it  is  impossible.  I  wrote  to  you,  you  know:  that 
first  meeting  at  the  ball;  it  was  so  strange;  I  felt 
that  .  .  ." 

'That  what?" 

She  took  his  hand  and  stroked  it;  her  eyes  were 
vague,  her  words  were  vague : 

"  You  see  ...  he  has  been  my  husband." 

"  But  you're  divorced  from  him :  not  merely 
separated,  but  divorced !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  divorced;  but  it's  not  that." 

"What  then,  dearest?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  hid  her  face  against  him: 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Duco." 

"Why  not?" 

11  I'm  ashamed." 

"Tell  me;  do  you  still  love  him?" 

"  No,  it's  not  love.     I  love  you." 

"  But  what  then,  my  darling?  Why  are  you 
ashamed?  " 


292  THE  INEVITABLE 

She  began  to  cry  on  his  shoulder : 

"I  feel  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

1  That  I  am  not  free,  although  .  .  .  although  I 
am  divorced.  I  feel  .  .  .  that  I  am  his  wife  all 
the  same." 

She  whispered  the  words  almost  inaudibly. 

"  But  then  you  do  love  him  and  more  than  you 
love  me." 

"  No,  no,  I  swear  I  don't !  " 

"But,  darling,  you're  not  talking  sense!" 
'  Yes,  indeed  I  am." 
'  No,  you're  not.     It's  impossible !  " 

"  It  isn't.  It's  quite  possible.  And  he  told  me 
so  ...  and  I  felt  it.  .  .  ." 

"  But  the  fellow's  hypnotizing  you !  " 

"No,  it's  not  hypnotism.  It's  not  a  delusion: 
it's  a  reality,  deep,  deep  down  within  myself.  Look 
here,  you  know  me:  you  know  how  I  feel.  I  love 
you  and  you  only.  That  alone  is  love.  I  have 
never  loved  any  one  else.  I  am  not  a  woman  who 
is  susceptible  to  ...  I'm  not  hysterical.  But  with 
him  .  .  .  No  other  man,  no  man  whom  I  have  ever 
met,  rouses  that  feeling  in  me  ...  that  feeling  that 
I  am  not  myself.  That  I  belong  to  him,  that  I  am 
his  property,  his  chattel." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him,  she  hid  herself  like 
a  child  in  his  breast : 

"  It  is  so  strange.  .  .  .  You  know  me,  don't  you? 
I  can  be  plucky  and  I  am  independent  and  I  am 
never  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.  But  with  him  I  am 
no  longer  sure  of  myself,  I  no  longer  have  a  life  of 
my  own.  And  I  do  what  he  tells  me  to." 

"  But  that  is  hypnotism :  you  can  escape  that,  if 
you  seriously  wish  to.  I  will  help  you." 

"  It  is  not  hypnotism.  It  is  a  truth,  deep  down 
inside  me.  It  exists  inside  me.  I  know  that  it  is  so, 


THE  INEVITABLE  293 

that  it  has  to  be  so.  ...  Duco,  it  is  impossible.  I 
can't  become  your  wife.  I  mustn't  become  your 
wife  .  .  .  less  now  than  ever.  Perhaps  ..." 

"Perhaps  what?" 

"  Perhaps  I  always  felt  like  that,  without  know* 
ing  it,  that  it  must  not  be.  Both  for  you  and  for 
me  .  .  .  and  for  him  too.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  was 
what  I  felt,  without  knowing  it,  when  I  talked  as 
I  used  to,  about  my  antipathy  for  marriage." 

"  But  that  antipathy  arose  from  your  marriage 
.  .  .  with  him !  " 

"  Yes,  that's  the  strange  part  of  it.  I  dislike  him 
...  and  yet  .  .  ." 

"  Yet  you're  in  love  with  him !  " 
'  Yet  I  belong  to  him." 

"  And  you  tell  me  that  you  love  me  1  " 

She  took  his  head  in  her  two  hands : 

"  Try  to  understand.  It  tires  me  so,  trying  to 
make  you  understand.  I  love  you  .  .  .  but  I  am 
his  wife.  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  forgetting  what  you  were  to  me  in 
Rome?  .  .  ." 

"  I  was  everything  to  you :  love,  happiness,  intense 
happiness.  ...  There  was  the  most  intense  har- 
mony between  us:  I  shall  never  forget  it.  ... 
But  I  was  not  your  wife." 

"Not  my  wife!" 

"  No,  I  was  your  mistress.  ...  I  was  unfaithful 
to  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  repulse  me  1  Pity  me,  pity 
mel  " 

He  had  unconsciously  made  a  gesture  that  fright- 
ened her. 

"  Let  me  stay  like  this,  leaning  against  you.  May 
I?  I  am  so  tired  and  I  feel  restful,  leaning  against 
you  like  this,  my  darling.  My  darling,  my  darling 
.  .  .  things  will  never  be  as  they  were.  What  are 
we  to  do?  " 


294  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  in  despair.  "  I  want 
to  marry  you  as  soon  as  may  be.  You  won't  con- 
sent." 

"  I  can't.     I  mustn't." 

"  Then  I  don't  know  what  to  do  or  say." 

"  Don't  be  angry.  Don't  leave  me.  Help  me, 
do,  do !  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !  " 

She  drew  him  into  her  arms,  in  a  close,  sudden 
embrace,  as  though  in  perplexity  and  despair.  He 
kissed  her  passionately  in  response. 

"  O  God,  tell  me  what  to  do !  "  she  prayed,  as  she 
lay  hopelessly  perplexed  in  his  embrace. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

Next  day,  when  Cornelie  walked  with  Duco 
through  Florence,  when  they  entered  the  courtyard 
of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  saw  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi 
and  looked  in  at  the  Uffizi  to  see  Memmi's  Annun- 
ciation, she  felt  something  like  her  former  sensa- 
tions irresistibly  unfolding  within  her.  They  seemed 
to  have  taken  their  lines  which  had  burst  asunder 
and  with  human  force  to  have  bent  them  together 
again  into  one  path,  along  which  the  white  daisies 
and  white  lilies  shot  up  with  a  tenderness  of  soft, 
mystic  recognition  that  was  almost  like  a  dream. 
And  yet  it  was  not  quite  the  same  as  before.  An 
oppression  as  of  a  grey  cloud  hung  between  her  and 
the  deep-blue  sky,  which  hung  out  stretched  like 
strips  of  aether,  like  paths  of  lofty,  quivering  at- 
mosphere, above  the  narrow  streets,  above  the 
domes  and  towers  and  turrets.  She  no  longer  felt 
the  former  apprehension;  there  was  a  remembrance 
in  her,  a  heavy  pondering  weighed  upon  her  brain, 
an  anxiety  for  what  was  about  to  happen.  She 
had  a  presentiment  as  of  a  coming  storm;  and  when, 
after  their  walk,  they  had  had  something  to  eat  and 
went  home,  she  dragged  herself  up  the  stairs  to 
Duco's  room  more  wearily  than  she  had  ever  done 
in  Rome.  And  she  at  once  saw  a  letter  lying  on 
the  table,  a  letter  addressed  to  her.  But  how  ad- 
dressed !  It  gave  her  so  violent  a  start  that  she  be- 
gan to  tremble  in  every  limb  and  managed  to  thrust 
the  letter  away  even  before  Duco  had  followed  her 
into  the  room.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  told  Duco 
that  she  wanted  to  get  something  out  of  her  trunk, 

295 


296  THE  INEVITABLE 

which  was  standing  in  the  passage.  He  asked  if 
he  could  help  her;  but  she  said  no  and  left  the  room 
and  went  into  the  narrow  passage.  Here,  standing 
by  the  little  window  overlooking  the  Arno,  she  took 
out  the  letter.  It  was  the  only  place  where  she 
could  read  for  a  moment  undisturbed.  And  she 
read  that  address  again,  written  in  his  hand,  which 
she  knew  so  well,  with  its  great  thick,  heavy  char- 
acters. The  name  which  she  bore  abroad  was  her 
maiden  name;  she  called  herself  Madame  de  Retz 
van  Loo.  But  on  the  envelope  she  read,  briefly: 

"  BARONNE  BROX, 

"  37,  Lung'  Arno  Torrigiani, 
"  FLORENCE." 

A  deep  crimson  flush  mantled  over  her  face.  She 
had  borne  that  name  for  a  year.  Why  did  he  call 
her  by  it  now?  Where  was  the  logic  in  that  title 
which,  by  the  law,  was  hers  no  longer?  What  did 
he  mean  by  it,  what  did  he  want?  .  .  .  And,  stand- 
ing by  the  little  window,  she  read  his  short  but  im- 
perious letter.  He  wrote  that  he  took  her  flight 
very  much  amiss,  especially  after  their  last  conver- 
sation. He  wrote  that,  at  this  last  interview,  she 
had  granted  him  every  right  over  her,  that  she  had 
not  denied  it  and  that,  by  kissing  him  and  putting 
her  arms  around  him,  she  had  shown  that  she  re- 
garded herself  as  his  wife,  just  as  he  regarded  her 
as  his  wife.  He  wrote  that  he  would  not  now  resent 
her  independent  life  of  a  year  in  Rome,  because 
she  was  then  still  free,  but  that  he  was  offended  at 
her  still  looking  upon  herself  as  free  and  that  he 
would  not  accept  the  insult  of  her  flight.  He  called 
upon  her  to  return.  He  said  that  he  had  no  legal 
right  to  do  so,  but  that  he  did  it  because  he  neverthe- 
less had  a  right,  a  right  which  she  could  not  dispute, 


THE  INEVITABLE  297. 

which  indeed  she  had  not  disputed,  which  on  the  con- 
trary she  had  acknowledged  by  her  kiss.  He  had 
learnt  her  address  from  the  porter  of  the  Villa  Uxe- 
ley.  And  he  ended  by  repeating  that  she  was  to 
return  to  Nice,  to  him,  at  the  Hotel  Continental, 
and  telling  her  that,  if  she  did  not  do  this,  he  would 
come  to  Florence  and  she  would  be  responsible  for 
the  consequences  of  her  refusal. 

Her  knees  shook;  she  was  hardly  able  to  stand  up- 
right. Should  she  show  Duco  the  letter  or  keep 
it  from  him?  She  had  to  make  up  her  mind  then 
and  there.  He  was  calling  to  her  from  the  room, 
asking  what  she  was  doing  so  long  in  the  passage. 
She  went  in  and  was  too  weak  to  refrain  from 
throwing  herself  on  his  breast.  She  showed  him  the 
letter.  Leaning  against  him,  sobbing  violently,  she 
heard  him  fume  and  rage,  saw  the  veins  on  his  tem- 
ples swell,  saw  him  clench  his  fists  and  roll  the  letter 
into  a  ball  and  dash  it  to  the  floor.  He  told  her 
not  to  be  frightened,  said  that  he  would  protect  her. 
He  too  regarded  her  as  his  wife.  It  all  depended 
upon  the  light  in  which  she  henceforth  regarded  her- 
self. She  did  not  speak,  merely  sobbed,  broken  with 
fatigue,  with  fright,  with  head-ache.  She  undressed 
and  went  to  bed,  her  teeth  chattering  with  fever. 
He  drew  her  curtains  to  darken  the  room  and  told 
her  to  go  to  sleep.  His  voice  sounded  angry  and 
she  thought  that  he  was  angry  at  her  lack  of  resolu- 
tion. She  sobbed  and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  But 
in  her  sleep  she  felt  the  terror  within  herself  and 
again  felt  the  irresistible  pressure.  While  sleeping 
she  dreamt  of  what  she  could  reply  and  wrote  to 
Brox,  but  it  was  not  clear  what  she  wrote :  it  was  all 
a  vague,  impotent  pleading  for  mercy. 

When  she  woke,  she  saw  Duco  beside  her  bed. 
She  took  his  hand;  she  was  calmer.  But  she  had  no 
hope.  She  had  no  faith  in  the  days  that  were  com- 


298  THE  INEVITABLE 

ing.  She  looked  at  him  and  saw  him  gloomy,  stern 
and  self-contained,  as  she  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. Oh,  their  happiness  was  past !  On  that  fatal 
day  when  he  had  seen  her  to  the  train  in  Rome,  they 
had  taken  leave  of  their  happiness.  It  was  gone,  it 
was  gone !  Gone  the  dear  walks  through  ruins  and 
museums,  the  trips  to  Frascati,  Naples,  Amalfi! 
Gone  the  dear,  fond  life  of  poverty  in  the  big  stu- 
dio, among  the  gleaming  colours  of  the  old  brocades 
and  chasubles,  of  the  old  bronzes  and  silver  1  Gone 
the  gazing  together  at  his  water-colour  of  The  Ban- 
ners, she  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  within  his 
arm,  living  his  art  with  him,  enjoying  his  work  with 
him !  Gone  the  ecstasy  of  the  night  in  the  pergola, 
in  the  star-spangled  night,  with  the  sacred  lake  at 
their  feet !  Life  was  not  to  be  repeated.  They  had 
tried  in  vain  to  repeat  it  here,  in  this  room,  at  Flo- 
rence, in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  tried  in  vain  to  repeat 
it  even  in  the  presence  of  Memmi's  angel  emitting 
his  beam  of  light!  They  tried  in  vain  to  repeat 
their  life,  their  happiness,  their  love;  it  was  in  vain 
that  they  had  forced  together  the  lines  which  had 
burst  asunder.  These  had  merely  twined  round  each 
other  for  a  moment,  in  a  despairing  curve.  It  was 
gone,  it  was  gone!  .  .  .  Gloomy  and  stern  he  sat 
beside  her  bed;  and  she  knew  it,  he  felt  that  he  was 
powerless  because  she  did  not  feel  herself  to  be  his 
wife.  His  mistress !  .  .  .  Oh,  she  had  felt  that  in- 
voluntary repulsion  when  she  had  uttered  the  word  1 
Had  he  not  always  wanted  to  marry  her?  But  she 
had  always  felt  unconsciously  that  it  could  not  be, 
that  it  must  not  be.  Under  all  the  exuberance  of 
her  acrid  feministic  phrases,  that  had  been  the  un- 
conscious truth.  She,  railing  against  marriage,  had 
always,  inwardly,  felt  herself  to  be  married  .  .  . 
not  by  a  signature,  in  accordance  with  the  law,  but 
according  to  an  age-old  law,  a  primeval  right  of  man 


THE  INEVITABLE  299 

over  woman,  a  law  and  a  right  of  flesh  and  blood 
and  the  very  marrow  of  the  bones.  Oh,  above  that 
immovable  physical  truth  her  soul  had  blossomed  its 
blossom  of  white  daisies  and  lilies ;  and  that  blossom 
also  was  the  intense  truth,  the  lofty  truth  of  hap- 
piness and  love !  But  the  daisies  and  lilies  blos- 
somed and  faded :  the  soul  blossoms  for  but  a  single 
summer.  The  soul  does  not  blossom  for  a  lifetime. 
It  blossoms  perhaps  before  life,  it  blossoms  per- 
haps after  it;  but  in  life  itself  the  soul  blossoms  for 
but  a  single  summer.  It  had  blossomed,  it  was 
over !  And  in  her  body,  which  lived,  in  her  being, 
which  survived,  she  felt  the  truth  in  her  very  mar- 
row! He  was  sitting  beside  her  bed,  but  he  had 
no  rights,  now  that  the  lilies  had  blossomed.  .  .  . 
She  was  broken  with  pity  for  him.  She  took  his 
hand  and  kissed  it  fervently  and  sobbed  over  it. 
He  said  nothing.  He  did  not  know  how  to  say 
anything.  It  would  all  have  been  very  simple  for 
him,  if  she  had  consented  to  be  his  wife.  As  things 
were,  he  could  not  help  her.  As  things  were,  he 
saw  his  happiness  foundering  while  he  looked  on: 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  It  was  slowly  fall- 
ing to  pieces,  like  a  crumbling  ruin.  It  was  gone! 
It  was  gone !  .  .  . 

She  stayed  in  bed  these  days;  she  slept,  she 
dreamt,  she  awoke  again;  and  the  dread  waiting 
never  left  her.  She  had  a  slight  temperature  now 
and  again;  and  it  was  better  for  her  to  stay  in  bed. 
As  a  rule,  he  remained  by  her  side.  But  one  day, 
when  Duco  had  gone  to  the  chemist's  for  something, 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  leapt  out  of 
bed,  terrified,  terrified  lest  she  should  see  the  man 
of  whom  she  was  always  thinking.  Half-fainting 
with  fright,  she  opened  the  door  ajar.  It  was  only 
the  postman,  with  a  registered  letter  .  .  .  from 
him!  Even  more  curtly  than  last  time,  he  wrote 


300  THE  INEVITABLE 

that,  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  his  letter,  she  was 
to  telegraph,  stating  the  day  when  she  would  come. 
He  said  that,  if  on  such  and  such  a  day  —  he  would 
calculate,  etc.,  which  —  he  did  not  receive  her  tele- 
gram, he  would  leave  for  Florence  and  shoot  her 
lover  like  a  dog  at  her  feet.  He  would  not  take  a 
moment  to  reflect.  He  did  not  care  what  hap- 
pened. ...  In  this  short  letter,  his  anger,  his  fury, 
raged  like  a  red  storm  that  lashed  her  across  the 
face.  She  knew  him;  and  she  knew  that  he  would 
do  what  he  said.  She  saw,  as  in  a  flash,  the  terrible 
scene,  with  Duco  dropping,  murdered,  weltering  in 
his  blood.  And  she  was  no  longer  her  own  mis- 
tress. The  red  fury  of  that  letter,  dispatched  from 
afar,  made  her  his  chattel,  his  thing.  She  had  torn 
the  letter  open  hastily,  before  signing  the  postman's 
book.  The  man  was  waiting  in  the  passage.  Her 
brain  whirled,  the  room  spun  before  her  eyes.  If 
she  paused  to  reflect,  it  would  be  too  late,  too  late 
to  reflect.  And  she  asked  the  postman,  nervously: 
"  Can  you  send  off  a  telegram  for  me  at  once?  " 
No,  he  couldn't:  it  wasn't  on  his  road. 
But  she  implored  him  to  do  it.  She  said  that  she 
was  ill  and  that  she  must  telegraph  at  once.  And 
she  found  a  gold  ten-franc  piece  in  her  purse  and 
gave  it  to  him  as  a  tip  over  and  above  the  money 
for  the  telegram.  And  she  wrote  the  telegram: 

"  Leaving  to-morrow  express  train." 

It  was  a.  vague  telegram.  She  did  not  know  by 
what  express;  she  had  not  been  able  to  look  it  up. 
Would  it  be  in  the  evening  or  quite  early  in  the 
morning?  She  had  no  idea.  How  would  she  be 
able  to  get  away?  She  had  no  idea.  But  she 
thought  that  the  telegram  would  calm  him.  And 
she  meant  to  go.  She  had  no  choice.  Now  that 


THE  INEVITABLE  301 

she  had  fled  in  despair,  she  saw  it:  if  he  wanted  to 
have  her  back,  back  as  his  wife,  she  must  go.  If 
he  had  not  wanted  it,  she  could  have  remained, 
wherever  she  might  be,  despite  her  feeling  that  she 
belonged  to  him.  But  now  that  he  wanted  it,  she 
must  go  back.  But  oh,  how  was  she  to  tell  Duco? 
She  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  she  was  thinking 
of  Duco.  '  She  saw  him  lying  before  her  in  his  blood. 
She  forgot  that  she  had  no  money  left.  Was  she 
to  ask  him  for  it?  O  God,  what  was  she  to  do? 
She  could  not  go  next  day,  notwithstanding  her  tele- 
gram !  She  could  not  tell  Duco  that  she  was  going. 
.  .  .  She  had  meant  to  slip  quietly  to  the  station, 
when  he  was  out.  ...  Or  had  she  better  tell  him? 
.  .  .  Which  would  be  the  least  painful?  ...  Or 
should  .  .  .  should  she  tell  everything  to  Duco  and 
.  .  .  and  run  away  .  .  .  run  away  somewhere  with 
him  and  tell  nobody  where  they  were  going.  .  .  . 
But  supposing  he  discovered  where  they  had  gone! 
And  he  would  find  them !  .  .  .  And  then  .  .  .  then 
he  would  murder  .  .  .  Duco!  .  .  . 

She  was  almost  delirious  with  fear,  with  terror, 
with  not  knowing  what  to  do,  how  to  act.  .  .  .  She 
now  heard  Duco's  steps  on  the  stairs.  .  .  .  He  came 
in,  bringing  her  the  pills.  .  .  .  And,  as  usual,  she 
told  him  everything,  too  weak,  too  tired,  to  keep 
anything  hidden,  and  showed  him  the  letter.  He 
blazed  out,  furiously,  with  hatred;  but  she  fell  on 
her  knees  before  him  and  took  his  hands.  She  said 
that  she  had  already  sent  the  answer.  He  suddenly 
became  cool,  as  though  overcome  by  the  inevitable. 
He  said  that  he  had  no  money  to  pay  for  her  jour- 
ney. Then,  once  more,  he  took  her  in  his  arms, 
kissed  her,  begged  her  to  be  his  wife,  said  that  he 
would  kill  her  husband,  even  as  her  husband  had 
threatened  to  kill  him.  But  she  did  nothing  but 
sob  and  refuse,  although  she  continued  to  cling  to 


302  .    THE  INEVITABLE 

him  convulsively.  Then  he  yielded  to  the  fatal 
omnipotence  of  life's  silent  tyranny.  He  felt  death 
in  his  soul.  But  he  wished  to  keep  calm  for  her 
sake.  He  said  that  he  forgave  her.  He  held  her, 
all  sobbing,  in  his  arms,  because  his  touch  calmed 
her.  And  he  said  that,  if  she  wanted  to  go  back  — 
she  despondently  nodded  yes  —  it  was  better  to  tele- 
graph to  Brox  again,  asking  for  money  for  the  jour- 
ney and  for  clear  instructions  as  to  the  day  and 
time.  He  would  do  this  for  her.  She  looked  at 
him,  through  her  tears,  in  surprise.  He  himself 
drew  up  the  telegram  and  went  out. 

"  My  darling,  my  darling!  "  she  thought,  as  he 
went,  as  she  felt  the  pain  in  his  torn  soul.  She  flung 
herself  on  the  bed.  He  found  her  in  hysterics  when 
he  returned.  When  he  had  tended  her  and  tucked 
her  up  in  bed,  he  sat  down  beside  her.  And  he 
said,  in  a  dead  voice : 

"  My  dearest,  be  calm  now.  The  day  after  to- 
morrow I  shall  take  you  to  Genoa.  Then  we  shall 
take  leave  of  each  other,  for  ever.  If  it  can't  be 
otherwise,  it  must  be  like  that.  If  you  feel  that  it 
has  to  be,  then  it  must  be.  Be  calm  now,  be  calm 
now.  If  you  feel  like  that,  that  you  must  go  back 
to  your  husband,  then  perhaps  you  will  not  be  un- 
happy with  him.  Be  calm,  dear,  be  calm." 

"Will  you  take  me?" 

"  I  shall  take  you  as  far  as  Geona.  I  have  bor- 
rowed the  money  from  a  friend.  But  above  all  try 
to  be  calm.  Your  husband  wants  you  back;  he 
can't  want  you  back  only  to  beat  you.  He  must  feel 
something  for  you  if  he  wants  you  so.  And,  if  it 
has  to  be  ...  then  perhaps  it  will  be  the  best  thing 
.  .  .  for  you.  .  .  .  Even  though  I  can't  see  it  in 
that  light!  .  .  ." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and,  no  longer 
master  of  himself  burst  into  sobs.  She  drew  him 


THE  INEVITABLE  303 

to  her  breast.  She  was  now  calmer  than  he.  And, 
as  he  sobbed  with  his  head  on  her  beating  heart,  she 
quietly  stroked  his  forehead,  while  her  eyes  roamed 
distantly  round  the  walls  of  the  room.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  LIV 

She  was  now  alone  in  the  train.  By  tipping  the 
guard  lavishly,  they  had  travelled  by  themselves 
tnrough  the  night  and  been  left  undisturbed  in  their 
compartment.  Oh,  the  melancholy  journey,  the  last 
silent  journey  of  the  end!  They  had  not  spoken 
but  had  sat  close  together,  hand  in  hand,  with  eyes 
gazing  into  the  distance  before  them,  as  though  sta- 
ring at  the  approaching  point  of  separation.  The 
dreary  thought  of  that  separation  never  left  them, 
rushed  onward  in  unison  with  the  rattling  train. 
Sometimes  she  thought  of  a  railway-accident  and 
that  it  would  be  welcome  to  her  if  she  could  die 
with  him.  But  the  lights  of  Genoa  had  gleamed  up 
inexorably.  Then  the  train  had  stopped.  And  he 
had  flung  out  his  arms  and  they  had  kissed  for  the 
last  time.  Pressed  to  his  breast,  she  had  felt  all  his 
grief  within  him.  Then  he  had  released  her  and 
rushed  away,  without  looking  round.  She  followed 
him  with  her  eyes,  but  he  did  not  look  back  and 
she  saw  him  disappear  in  the  morning  mist,  pierced 
with  little  lights,  that  hung  about  the  station.  She 
had  seen  him  disappear  among  other  people,  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  hovering  mist.  Then  the  silent  and 
despairing  surrender  of  her  life  had  become  so  great 
that  she  was  not  even  able  to  weep.  Her  head 
dropped  limply,  her  arms  hung  lax.  Like  an  inert 
thing  she  let  the  train  bear  her  onward  with  its 
rending  rattle. 

A  white  morning  twilight  had  risen  on  the  left 
over  the  brightening  sea;  and  the  dawning  daylight 
tinted  the  water  blue  and  defined  the  horizon.  For 

304 


THE  INEVITABLE  305 

hours  and  hours  she  travelled  on,  motionlessly,  ga- 
zing out  at  the  sea ;  and  she  felt  almost  painless  with 
her  impassive  surrender  of  life.  She  would  now  let 
things  happen  as  life  willed,  as  her  husband  willed, 
as  the  train  willed.  As  in  a  tired  dream  she  thought 
of  the  inevitability  of  everything  and  all  the  un- 
conscious life  within  herself,  of  her  first  rebellion 
against  her  husband's  tyranny,  of  the  illusion  of  her 
independence,  the  arrogance  of  her  pride  and  all  the 
happiness  of  her  gentle  ecstasy,  all  her  gladness  be- 
cause of  the  harmony  which  she  had  achieved.  .  .  . 
Now  it  was  past;  now  all  self-will  was  vain.  The 
train  was  carrying  her  to  where  Rudolph  called  her; 
and  life  hemmed  her  in  on  every  side,  not  roughly, 
but  with  a  soft  pressure  of  phantom  hands,  which 
pushed  and  led  and  guided.  .  .  . 

And  she  ceased  to  think.  The  tired  dream  be- 
came clouded  in  the  deeper  blue  of  the  day;  and 
she  felt  that  she  was  approaching  Nice.  She  re- 
turned to  the  petty  realities  of  life.  She  felt  that 
she  was  looking  a  little  travel-worn:  and,  feeling 
that  it  would  be  better  if  Rudolph  did  not  see  her 
for  the  first  time  in  so  unattractive  a  light,  she  slowly 
opened  her  bag,  washed  her  face  with  her  handker- 
chief dipped  in  eau-de-Cologne,  combed  her  hair, 
powdered  her  face,  brushed  herself  down,  put  on 
a  transparent  white  veil  and  took  out  a  pair  of  new 
gloves.  She  bought  a  couple  of  yellow  roses  at  a 
station  and  put  them  in  her  waistband.  She  did  all 
this  unconsciously,  without  thinking  about  it,  feel- 
ing that  it  was  best,  that  it  was  sensible  to  do  it, 
best  that  Rudolph  should  see  her  like  that,  with 
that  bloom  of  a  beautiful  woman  about  her.  She 
felt  that  henceforth  she  must  be  above  all  beautiful 
and  that  nothing  else  mattered.  And  when  the 
train  droned  into  the  station,  when  she  recognized 
Nice,  she  was  resigned,  because  she  had  ceased  to 


3o6  THE  INEVITABLE 

struggle  and  had  yielded  to  all  the  stronger  forces. 
The  door  was  flung  open  and,  in  the  station,  which 
at  that  early  hour  was  comparatively  empty,  she 
saw  him  at  once :  tall,  robust,  easy,  in  his  light  sum- 
mer suit,  straw  hat  and  brown  shoes.  He  gave  an 
impression  of  health  and  strength  and  above  all  of 
broad-shouldered  virility;  and,  notwithstanding  his 
broadness,  he  was  still  quite  thoroughbred,  tho- 
roughly well-groomed  without  the  least  touch  of  top- 
pishness;  and  the  ironical  smile  beneath  his  mous- 
tache and  the  steady  glance  of  his  fine  grey  eyes,  the 
eyes  of  a  woman-hunter,  gave  him  an  air  of  strength, 
of  the  certainty  of  doing  as  he  wished,  of  the  power 
to  subdue  if  he  thought  fit.  An  ironic  pride  in  his 
handsome  strength,  with  a  tinge  of  contempt  for 
the  others  who  were  less  handsome  and  strong,  less 
of  the  healthy  animal  and  yet  the  aristocrat,  and 
above  all  a  mocking,  supercilious  sarcasm  directed 
against  all  women,  because  he  knew  women  and 
knew  how  much  they  were  really  worth :  all  this  was 
expressed  by  his  glance,  his  attitude,  his  movements. 
It  was  thus  that  she  knew  him.  It  had  often  roused 
her  to  rebellion  in  the  old  days,  but  she  now  felt 
resigned  and  also  a  little  frightened. 

He  had  come  to  her;  he  helped  her  to  alight. 
She  saw  that  he  was  angry,  that  he  intended  to  re- 
ceive her  rudely;  then,  that  his  moustache  was  cur- 
ling ironically,  as  though  in  mockery  because  he  was 
the  stronger.  She  said  nothing,  however,  took  his 
hand  calmly  and  alighted.  He  led  her  outside; 
and  in  the  carriage  they  waited  a  moment  for  the 
trunk.  His  eyes  took  her  in  at  a  glance.  She  was 
wearing  an  old  blue-serge  skirt  and  a  little  blue- 
serge  cape ;  but,  notwithstanding  her  old  clothes  and 
her  weary  resignation,  she  looked  a  handsome  and 
smartly-dressed  woman. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  thought  it  advisable 


THE  INEVITABLE  307 

at  last  to  carry  out  my  wishes,"  he  said,  in  the  end. 

u  I  thought  it  would  be  best,"  she  answered, 
softly. 

Her  tone  struck  him;  and  he  watched  her  attent- 
ively, out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes.  He  did  not 
understand  her,  but  he  was  pleased  that  she  had 
come.  She  was  tired  now,  from  excitement  and 
travelling;  but  he  thought  that  she  looked  most 
charming,  even  though  she  was  not  so  brilliant  as 
on  that  night,  at  Mrs.  Uxeley's  ball,  when  he  had 
first  spoken  to  his  divorced  wife. 

"  Are  you  tired?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  been  a  bit  feverish  for  a  day  or  two; 
and  of  course  I  had  no  sleep  last  night,"  she  said, 
as  though  in  apology. 

The  trunk  was  brought  and  they  drove  away,  to 
the  Hotel  Continental.  She  did  not  speak  again  in 
the  carriage.  They  were  also  silent  as  they  entered 
the  hotel  and  in  the  lift.  He  took  her  to  his  room. 
It  was  an  ordinary  hotel-bedroom;  but  she  thought 
it  strange  to  see  his  brushes  lying  on  the  dressing- 
table,  his  coats  and  trousers  hanging  on  the  pegs: 
familiar  things  with  whose  outlines  and  folds  she 
was  well-acquainted.  She  recognized  his  trunk  in 
a  corner. 

He  opened  the  windows  wide.  She  had  sat  down 
on  a  chair,  in  an  expectant  attitude.  She  felt  a  lit- 
tle faint  and  closed  her  eyes,  which  were  blinded  by 
the  stream  of  sunlight. 

"  You  must  be  hungry,"  he  said.  "  What  shall 
I  order  for  you?  " 

"  I  should  like  some  tea  and  bread-and-butter." 

Her  trunk  arrived;  and  he  ordered  her  breakfast. 
Then  he  said: 

"  Take  off  your  hat." 

She  stood  up.  She  took  off  her  cape.  Her  cot- 
ton blouse  was  rumpled;  and  this  annoyed  her.  She 


308  THE  INEVITABLE 

removed  the  pins  from  her  hat  before  the  glass  and 
quite  naturally  did  her  hair  with  his  comb,  which  she 
saw  lying  there.  And  she  settled  the  silk  bow 
around  her  collar. 

He  had  lit  a  cigar  and  was  smoking  quietly,  stand- 
ing. A  waiter  came  in  with  the  breakfast.  She 
ate  a  mouthful  without  speaking  and  drank  a  cup 
of  tea. 

"  Have  you  breakfasted?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

They  were  silent  again  and  she  went  on  eating. 

"  And  shall  we  have  a  talk  now?  "  he  asked,  still 
standing  up,  smoking. 

"  Very  well." 

"  I  won't  speak  about  your  running  off  as  you 
did,"  he  said.  "  My  first  intention  was  to  give 
you  a  regular  flaying,  for  it  was  a  damned  silly 
trick.  .  .  ." 

She  said  nothing.  She  merely  looked  up  at  him; 
and  her  beautiful  eyes  were  filled  with  a  new  ex- 
pression, one  of  gentle  resignation.  He  fell  silent 
again,  evidently  restraining  himself  and  seeking  his 
words.  Then  he  resumed: 

"  As  I  say,  I  won't  speak  about  that  any  more. 
For  the  moment  you  didn't  know  what  you  were 
doing  and  you  weren't  accountable  for  your  actions. 
But  there  must  be  an  end  of  that  now,  for  I  wish  it. 
Of  course  I  know  that  according  to  the  law  I  have 
not  the  least  right  over  you.  But  we've  discussed 
all  that ;  and  I  told  it  you  in  writing.  And  you  have 
been  my  wife;  and,  now  that  I  am  seeing  you  again, 
I  feel  very  plainly  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  re- 
gard you  as  my  wife  and  that  you  are  my  wife. 
And  you  must  have  retained  the  same  impression 
from  our  meeting  here,  at  Nice." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"You  admit  that?" 


THE  INEVITABLE  309 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated. 

"Then  that's  all  right.  It's  the  only  thing  I 
wanted  of  you.  So  we  won't  think  any  more  now 
of  what  happened,  of  our  former  unpleasantness, 
of  our  divorce  and  of  what  you  have  done  since. 
From  now  on  we  will  put  all  that  behind  us.  I  look 
upon  you  as  my  wife  and  you  shall  be  my  wife 
again.  According  to  the  law  we  ran't  get  married 
again.  But  that  makes  no  difference.  Our  divorce 
in  law  I  regard  as  an  intervening  formality  and  we 
will  counter  it  as  far  as  we  can.  If  we  have  child- 
ren, we  shall  get  them  legitimatized.  -I  will  consult 
a  lawyer  about  all  that;  and  I  shall  take  all  the  ne- 
cessary measures,  financial  included.  In  this  way 
our  divorce  will  be  nothing  more  than  a  formality, 
of  no  meaning  to  us  and  of  as  little  significance  as 
possible  to  the  world  and  to  the  law.  And  then  I 
shall  leave  the  service.  I  shouldn't  in  any  case  care 
to  stay  in  it  for  good,  so  I  may  as  well  leave  it 
earlier  than  I  intended.  For  you  wouldn't  find  it 
pleasant  to  live  in  Holland ;  and  it  doesn't  appeal  to 
me  either." 

11  No,"  she  murmured. 

"  Where  would  you  like  to  live?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  ." 

"In  Italy?" 

"  No,"  she  begged,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty. 

"  Care  to  stay  here?  " 

"  I'd  rather  not  ...  to  begin  with." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Paris.  Would  you  like  to 
live  in  Paris?  " 

;t  Very  well." 

"That's  all  right  then.  So  we  will  go  to  Paris 
as  soon  as  possible  and  look  out  for  a  flat  and 
settle  in.  It'll  soon  be  spring  now;  and  that  is  a 
good  time  to  start  life  in  Paris." 

"  Very  well." 


310  THE  INEVITABLE 

He  flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair;  it  creaked 
under  him.  Then  he  asked: 

"  Tell  me,  what  do  you  really  think,  inside  your- 
self? " 

"  How  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  thought  of  your  hus- 
band. Did  you  think  him  absurd?" 

"  No." 

"  Come  over  here  and  sit  on  my  knee." 

She  stood  up  and  went  to  him.  She  did  as  he 
wished,  sat  down  on  his  knee;  and  he  drew  her  to 
him.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head,  with  that 
gesture  which  prevented  her  thinking.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  laid  her  head  against  his  cheek. 

'  You  haven't  forgotten  me  altogether?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

'  We  ought  never  to  have  got  divorced,  ought 
we?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"  But  we  used  to  be  very  bad-tempered  then,  both 
of  us.  You  must  never  be  bad-tempered  in  future. 
It  makes  you  look  spiteful  and  ugly.  As  you  are 
now,  you're  much  nicer  and  prettier." 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  you  back  with  me,"  he 
whispered,  with  a  long  kiss  on  her  lips. 

She  closed  her  eyes  under  his  kiss,  while  his  mous- 
tache curled  against  her  skin  and  his  mouth  pressed 
hers. 

"  Are  you  still  tired?  "  he  asked.  "  Would  you 
like  to  rest  a  little?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  would  like  to  get  my 
things  off." 

"  You'd  better  go  to  bed  for  a  bit,"  he  said. 
"  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you :  your  friend, 
the  princess,  is  coming  here  this  evening !  " 

"  Isn't  Urania  angry?  " 


THE  INEVITABLE  311 

"  No,  I  have  told  her  everything  and  she  knows 
about  it  all." 

She  was  pleased  to  know  that  Urania  was  not 
angry  and  that  she  still  had  a  friend  left. 

'  And  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Uxeley  also." 

"  She  must  be  angry  with  me,  isn't  she?  " 

He  laughed: 

"That  old  hag!  No,  not  angry.  She's  in  the 
dumps  because  she  has  no  one  with  her.  She  set 
great  store  by  you.  She  likes  to  have  pretty  people 
about  her,  she  said.  She  can't  stand  an  ugly  com- 
panion, with  no  chic.  .  .  .  There,  get  undressed  and 
go  to  bed.  I'll  leave  you  and  go  and  sit  downstairs 
somewhere." 

They  stood  up.  His  eyes  had  a  golden  glimmer 
in  them;  his  moustache  was  lifted  by  his  ironic  smile. 
And  he  caught  her  fiercely  in  his  arms : 

"  Cornelie,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  I  think  it's  won- 
derful to  have  you  back  again.  Do  you  belong  to 
me,  tell  me,  do  you  belong  to  me?  " 

He  pressed  her  to  him  till  he  almost  stifled  her 
with  the  pressure  of  his  arms: 

"  Tell  me,  do  you  belong  to  me?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  used  you  to  say  to  me  in  the  old  days, 
when  you  were  in  love  with  me?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"What  used  you  to  say?"  he  insisted,  holding 
her  still  more  tightly. 

Pushing  her  hands  against  his  shoulders,  she 
fought  to  catch  her  breath: 

"  My  Rud !  "  she  murmured.  "  My  beautiful, 
glorious  Rud !  " 

Automatically  she  now  wound  her  arms  around 
his  head.  He  released  her  as  with  an  effort  of 
will: 


312  THE  INEVITABLE 

"  Take  off  your  things,"  he  said,  "  and  try  to  get 
some  sleep.  I'll  come  back  later." 

He  went  away.  She  undressed  and  brushed  her 
hair  with  his  brushes,  washed  her  face  and  dripped 
into  the  basin  some  of  the  toilet-water  which  he 
used.  She  drew  the  curtains,  behind  which  the 
noonday  sun  shone;  and  a  soft  crimson  twilight  filled 
the  room.  And  she  crept  into  the  great  bed  and  lay 
waiting  fof  him,  trembling.  There  was  no  thought 
in  her.  There  was  in  her  no  grief  and  no  recollec- 
tion. She  was  filled  only  with  a  great  expectancy,  a 
waiting  for  the  inevitability  of  life.  She  felt  her- 
self to  be  solely  and  wholly  a  bride,  but  not  an  in- 
nocent bride;  and,  deep  in  her  blood,  in  the  very 
marrow  of  her  bones,  she  felt  herself  to  be  the  wife, 
the  very  blood  and  marrow,  of  him  whom  she 
awaited.  Before  her,  as  she  lay  half-dreaming,  she 
saw  little  figures  of  children.  For,  if  she  was  to  be 
his  wife  in  truth  and  sincerity,  she  wanted  to  be  not 
only  his  love.r  but  also  the  woman  who  gave  him  his 
children.  She  knew  that,  despite  his  roughness,  he 
loved  the  softness  of  children;  and  she  herself  would 
long  for  them,  in  her  second  married  life,  as  a  sweet 
comfort  for  the  days  when  she  would  be  no  longer 
beautiful  and  no  longer  young.  Before  her,  half- 
dreaming,  she  saw  the  figures  of  children.  .  .  .  And 
she  lay  waiting  for  him,  she  listened  for  his  step, 
she  longed  for  his  coming,  her  flesh  quivered  to- 
wards him.  .  .  .  And,  when  he  entered  and  came  to 
her,  her  arms  closed  round  him  in  profound  and  con- 
scious certainty  and  she  felt,  beyond  a  doubt,  on  his 
breast,  in  his  arms,  the  knowledge  of  his  virile,  over- 
mastering dominion,  while  before  her  eyes,  in  a 
dizzy,  melancholy  obscurity,  the  dream  of  her  life 
—  Rome,  Duco,  the  studio  —  sank  away.  .  .  . 

THE   END 


'  >y 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANG&LES 


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